


In the Heart of Cherry Hill

by needleyecandy



Series: Halloween [1]
Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ambiguity, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Class Kink, First Person Narrator, Ghost Stories, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Terrible Maritime Things, Terrible Victorian Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/needleyecandy/pseuds/needleyecandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disastrous whaling voyage, Thor decides to seek employment on land. There are few opportunities for a man of his skills, though, and he finds himself living in such dire poverty that he has nearly resigned himself for a return to the sea, when he spies a rather unusual advertisement. The position proves to be of a sort he had never imagined existed.</p><p>As is his new employer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Position

**Author's Note:**

> As evidenced by the title, I originally intended this to vaguely be a Crimson Peak /In The Heart of the Sea AU, set roughly halfway between their time periods. I outlined it before seeing Crimson Peak, so it's spoiler-free for that unless you're also avoiding the trailers, since that's what I worked from. It might be kind of spoilery for Heart of the Sea, but since those events happened almost 200 years ago, this feels kind of like giving spoiler warnings for the Napoleonic Wars. 
> 
> Warnings-Stuff happens in here that is non-con by today's standards, but I don't think would have been at the time in which it's set. There's no MCD, but the 'terrible things' tags definitely earn their keep. I'm generally not big on first person narration other than epistolatories, but all the Victorian books I read to get myself into the proper mood for this were written that way, so that's what I did as well. 
> 
> Happy Halloween, and Happy Reading!

My resolve had been so solid that first day. When I arrived safely back in England and fell to the ground, kissing the soil beneath my feet, I had sworn that I would never leave her precious shore again. At first, all the newspapers paid me to tell my story in their pages. Oh, it was a dashing tale, the shipwreck and survival. It was easy for me to imagine the dainty city folk (for even the filthiest of slum dwellers struck me as dainty now) reading about what I had endured, how they would thrill to disdain my most desperate acts of survival. There was even, briefly, someone interested in recording my tale for a cheap yellowback book, but nothing came of it. And the papers lost all their interest in me as soon as a new sensation grabbed London society. All too soon I found myself with little money, few hirable skills, and an thoroughly unsavory reputation.

I poured through the employment listings every day that I could find a discarded paper, saving my remaining money to pay for the cheap and grimy lodgings where I had made my abode since my arrival in London. But week after week passed in which I was turned away from every door on which I knocked. I know not when my resolve began to crumble, until one day I went to look for it and found no more than a mass of crumbs, so paltry that even a ship's rat would disdain to visit them. A man must earn his living somehow, after all, even if he dies in the attempt. And now this was the last week I could afford to go without work. If I found nothing in the next six days, I would have no choice but to return to the shipyard, and pray that I found there a captain taking on hands.

I was trudging home from yet another failed inquiry ("If you please, Madam, I am here to enquire after the position," I said, clutching the scrap of paper with the advertisement before me like a shield against her disdainful eyes, though she herself was a servant. "Experience?" she demanded of me. "None, but I am a hard and honest worker-" was all I had time to say before finding the door shut in my face), wrapping my arms around myself against the cold, when the wind blew a tattered sheet of newspaper against my legs. It tangled in my steps and I reached for it irritably to toss it away, but the bold text of the advertisement caught my eye.

_**FORMER SAILOR** _

_Wanted by the 31st October, by a Private Gentleman residing by the sea. Former sailor or other strong man skilled in rope work wanted to assist in the house. Must be willing to fulfill unusual requests. Liberal wages. Apply at low tide to Mr Laufeyson, Cherry Hill, Fowdray Island, Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria._

I looked at the date of the paper and swore under my breath, earning myself a glare from a woman passing by. It was over a week old, and tomorrow was the last day to apply. I had money enough for a single day's train fare. The docks of Southampton held promise; an experienced ship's mate like me had good odds of finding himself a position within a few short days of inquiries. That was real opportunity, while I had no way of knowing whether this position was still vacant. More likely than not, it was already filled, and then I would have no way to the docks. It was a terrible idea, against all reason... and yet, I had made a promise to myself, and I like to believe I am a man of my word. Moreover, Cherry Hill had a pleasant ring to it, and 'liberal wages' made this Mr Laufeyson sound kind. Perhaps, if I were turned away, I could beg of him train fare to Blackpool. And were I to starve in Cumbria, at least I would starve in cleaner air than that which had filled my lungs these past four months.

The next morning found me up well before dawn as always, an old ship's habit that I had never broken. My small bag was packed before it was time to descend for breakfast. I had few enough possessions, after all; I had arrived in England with nothing but the worn clothes given me by the captain of the ship that rescued us, all of them things designed for a much smaller man. When I first arrived in London and began earning money with my tale, I went out and bought myself a secondhand suit, only a little out of fashion and made of heavy brown wool, and, by the grace of God, large enough to actually fit me, though the sleeves were a trifle short. I purchased also a waistcoat of a darker brown, also wool. _Before,_ I would have gotten the daring red cotton stripe, but that was before. Now it was unthinkable. I needed good plain clothes that showed I knew my station, if I hoped to find myself a position. Lastly I bought myself two whitey-brown shirts, one of cotton that fit well but did nothing to cut the wind, and one of wool that was too tight but warm. New, I purchased a grand total of six socks, and I was forced by circumstance to pay a neighbor-woman to sew me two sets of combinations. The shoes I had been given fit me well enough that I could ignore the pinching about the toe. A shaving kit had been the pay for one of my interviews, and glad enough I was to get it. As soon as I had my new clothes, I traded the sea-captain's old clothes for a worn leather case with a stubbornly sticky clasp. It was small, but more than large enough for my purposes.

After my final breakfast (two thin slices of bread with two teaspoonfuls of grainy jam and one cup of thin tea, just as always) I paid my landlady my final week's rent. She was a good enough old widow for all her house was lacking in care - had she hired a girl to do the cleaning, half her lodgers likely would have been forced into even cheaper and worse abodes - and she sent me on my way with her blessings though I knew she was not sorry to see me go. It Ill-suited a lodging house to have a man of my reputation. True, it was a fair one, with the things I had done; however little choice I had seen at the time, I had after all chosen to do those things rather than die. No, she was not sorry to see the back of me as I hurried down the cramped mews and began my long walk towards St. Pancras, where the Midland trains began their long ways north. We always ate early; many of the other lodgers were expected at their jobs by six, and so I found himself at the train station just as dawn was breaking. That was for the best; Fowdray was a tidal island, to judge by the order to call at low tide, and I wanted to reach Barrow with a safe amount of daylight still before me.

I counted out my coins for the ticket to Carnford. I looked longingly at the row of costermongers, wondering if I might dare buy a mug of coffee to warm myself for the long ride ahead. I decided I best not. When I asked the ticket agent if he knew the fare from Carnford to Barrow-in-Furness, he had sneered at my carefully cleaned but ragged cuffs and told me to get on my way.

The ride was nearly seven hours of cramped discomfort, the third-class carriage overfilled with people carrying too many things with them and all jockeying for room each time one person shifted. The only saving grace was that with so many people it could hardly fail to keep warm within, though the air grew foul with breath and bodies. We were able to stand and stretch our legs at the stations along the way, but even so, it was an unpleasant journey. At last we reached Carnford, and after very little wait (for the Furness line existed for little more than to continue the path of the Midland line), I boarded the train to Barrow. These trains were well-kept, with even the cheap carriage in which I rode shining with a new coat of rich crimson paint. This latter leg was less cramped, and I was able to sit at the window and watch the countryside go by. This ride went slowly, perhaps little more than half the speed of the previous train, but I could not bring myself to mind. I sat on the right side of the train, and in the distance I could see the mountains rising up into the lazy clouds. Joseph, one of the hands from my ill-fated voyage, had been from Cumbria. Though we had always teased him when he spoke of the beauty of the land here, I saw now the truth of his words.

Dusk was not yet falling when we neared our destination, but it was late enough in the day that the warm glow of the late afternoon sun was making the red bricks of the town glow warm and inviting. I was resolved to take it as a good sign. Even better, I had enough money left from my train fare to buy a hot potato and a cup of coffee at the station. I went to the small cart that stood at the end of the platform and made my purchase. The woman who owned it seemed friendly, so as I stood there drinking my coffee, I attempted to strike up a conversation. "I beg your pardon," I said. "I had not expected the town to be so large. I am looking for Cherry Hill, on Fowdray Island. Would you be so kind as to direct me?"

Her face went sour at the word _cherry._ "You head south until there's about no more south to go. The causeway's only there at low tide, so you've got..." - and here she looked up at the clock which loomed above us - "perhaps an hour, else you'll have to wait until morning."

"I thank you," I said, determinedly ignoring the change in her tone. Whatever had caused it, I had no choice now but to carry on. "And how long a walk is it?"

She shrugged and took my empty cup, already turning away. "Hour and a half, perhaps," she said.

A glance at the sky told me which way was south, and I thrust the potato in my pocket and began to run. I knew I could not run long at once; I was still not anywhere near recovered from my near-starvation, and London life had given me little opportunity for brisk exercise of the sort I enjoyed. Nor would the pinching of my shoes allow me to keep this pace long. Only four blocks through the busy streets, darting into the road when the sides were too full of people, and I needed a rest. I slowed to a walk, daubing at the sweat on my forehead, and ate the first half of my potato. I was determined that if I ran and walked in equal measure, I should arrive before it was too late. And so I carried on, running four, walking four, until I reached the edge of town. The smell of the sea had come to me in little gusts as I had made my way through the town; here, unblocked by houses, it hit me in full force, and I shivered in memory.

The ground quickly became marshy and covered in the sort of low scrub that alone survives the harsh spray of saltwater, but I immediately found a path beaten through it by regular use. When I looked up, I saw my destination: the island ahead of me was small, and appeared to be triangular in shape. The single house upon it stood at the top of the hill, and had seemingly been built over time, with the center of the house made of dull gray stone and the additions of wood.

Dusk was settling in by the time I reached the causeway, making the damp sand shine pink. My footfalls were enough to jostle the pockets of sand where the clams hid, and looking back I could see my path dappled with little holes. I had never enjoyed clam hunting, but many other I had sailed with found it be a pleasant enough pursuit when we found ourselves with free time ashore. I thought of them as I walked. Despite the cramped quarters typical of whaling ships, they were with me now, in death, more than they ever were in life. I walked faster. Though the causeway was not long, by the time I reached the island, my path was little more than a foot wide. I trudged up the stony way to the house. I raised my hand to the knocker and rapped twice, firmly. It echoed so strongly I could hear it from my place of the step. Glancing back towards the mainland as I waited, I saw that the causeway was now completely submerged. Whatever happened next, I was here til morning.

I turned back quickly as the door creaked open. The man who stood in the entryway was well-dressed and tall, very nearly my own height, and his skin was as pale as mine was sun-darkened. My first thought was that he was much slighter than me, but then I remembered what I had become. He might even be larger, though _before_ I would have dwarfed him. His dark hair made his eyes all the more piercing as they met my own. "Yes?" he said.

"Good evening, sir. I am calling for Mister Laufeyson, to inquire about the position."

The man bowed his head and opened the door further. "I am Mister Laufeyson. Please, come inside."

I followed him in and took off my hat as he closed the door behind me. It creaked terribly. "I can see to that, sir," I said eagerly. "I'm good with joints of all sorts."

"Are you, now." He looked amused. "The sitting room is better lit. This way."

He walked quickly, and I took long strides to keep up with him. I had not walked so far in months, and never in such ill-fitting shoes, and it was a struggle to keep up with him as he quickly ascended the stone staircase that dominated the great hall. Not knowing what to do with my case, I carried it with me.

The sitting room was indeed better lit, the western windows catching the full rays of the setting sun. He sat down and gestured me to a chair opposite his own, covered in a bright floral brocade and frilled with matching taffeta. The lady of the house must have chosen it, I thought. The whole room was far too grand for interviewing a possible servant, were I to be honest. I wondered if the master knew that his sitting room was being used so. "Are you the butler, sir?" I asked.

He laughed. "No, this is my house."

My surprise must have shown on my face, for he laughed again.

"You did not expect the master of the house to be interviewing you, I take it?"

"Indeed, I did not."

"I live alone, Mister..."

"Odinson," I supplied.

His eyes flared wide in fascination and he rose.

"Oh, but you are notorious," he breathed. "Are the stories true? It never does to trust the papers, you know. One can be so easily taken in. Is it true? Are you a maneater?"

I closed my eyes. _Please, please,_ I begged silently. "It is the custom of the sea, in times of gravest need, sir. It will haunt me til the day I die, yet I believe I did no wrong."

"I believe you. And one does, at times, find the blood stirred best by a bit of rough," he murmured, grasping me by the chin and turning my face towards him.

"Excuse me, sir?" I said.

"I am a man of... _unusual_ needs, Mister Odinson. Do you think you can meet them?"

"I'm not sure I follow your meaning, sir."

"No. No, you wouldn't. Come with me." Mr Laufeyson turned sharply, his tails whirling behind him. He walked without looking back, trusting that I would follow him. I did, leaving my little case leaning against my chair and my hat perched neatly atop it. We passed back down to the grand hall, circling the staircase to where one might have expected to find a small room tucked away, but there was nothing until he pressed on a panel and a door sprung open. It revealed a narrow staircase, down which he now led me. Halfway down, the walls changed from poorly stained wood to aged stone, and the joins were heavily filled with decaying plaster. "This house is built upon the ruins of a monastery. I must admit, I find the ecclesiastical surroundings to add a certain savor to my activities," he told me.

There were three doors at the bottom of the stairs. He drew a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the one on the left, standing back as it swung open to let me precede him. The room was like something from a tawdry French novel. Unlit torches were mounted on the walls between racks of whips and flails. A single shelf was bolted to the stone wall. It was long and completely empty but for a coil of rope. In the center of the room stood a variety of grim furniture. There was a table with cuffs dangling from the corners, a whipping post, even a pair of stocks. My head felt suddenly light and I shifted his feet further apart to remain standing. Mr Laufeyson watched me levelly.

"Do you see now?"

I looked at him. For all the apparent calmness of his face, the vein in his forehead was throbbing. His jaw was tense and there was an expression on his face that I did not know. "You want to use these things on me, sir?" I said. A year ago it would have perturbed me greatly. Now - well, I liked it no better, but now was another time, and I was poor and desperate.

"Oh, no, my good man. You mistake me entirely. You were an officer, yes?" At my nod, he continued. "Then you are well versed in the usage of these implements. What I wish is for _you_ to use them on _me_."

I blinked. Surely this was a cruel jape. The advertisement must have been no more than some type of game being played on men like me, honest men seeking honest work.

Mr Laufeyson seemed to see into my thoughts. "I assure you, my offer of employment is quite sincere, as is my statement of what I wish you to do. Oh, there will be some light work about the house on occasion - repairs after storms, and such like - but most of the daily work is done by village women who come at one tide and leave at the next. You can understand, surely, why a man of my proclivities would prefer to avoid servants living in his home."

"Until me."

"Oh, I think you would scarcely be a servant. Indeed, I hardly have a word for what you would be." I watched as he turned away, running a pale finger over the stocks. "Have you ever lain with a man, Mr Odinson?"

I was utterly taken aback. No one had ever asked me anything half so personal. Not the most foul of the journalists, asking how we 'did our business' in the lifeboat. Not the most ghoulish of them, asking for details about the flavor of my dead companions, or if we had managed to cook them before we consumed their remains. "Sea voyages are long, sir," I said uncomfortably.

"That is a yes, I presume." Mr Laufeyson looked amused now as he turned back to me. "Did you enjoy it?"

I was tempted to pinch myself, to see if this were real. Even when the huge whale had rammed our ship, and when our little boat bobbed its flimsy way through the edge of a hurricane, I had at least known where I stood. Now I could only stand silent.

"I will take that as a yes, as well. You needn't be so shy about such matters, you know. I attended public school. Where do you think I picked up such proclivities?" asked Mr Laufeyson, gesturing at the room.

"I know nothing about that, sir."

Mr. Laufeyson led me back up to the sitting room as he answered. "No. Well. Let us discuss the terms, shall we? As I said, there will be some light work about the house, and I will expect you to indulge me two or three times per week. Beyond that, your time will be your own. You will have a private room with a comfortable bed and ample coal, meals and clothing provided, full access to my library, and two pounds per week, which I think you will find more than fair. While we are engaged in our sessions in the room below, you may fuck me if you like, but I will not require it. So. What say you?"

I needed to think. I sat back down in the dainty chair which seemed suddenly so incongruous with what I now knew of the house and its owner.

Two pounds a week. Even without all my needs provided, it was a far handsomer offer than I had dared dream. One hundred and four pounds a year... why, if I saved it, I could work here for ten years and have no need of further employ. Nor did the work itself seem unbearable, though I knew it would be unpleasant. After all, it was a thing to which I was unhappily accustomed. The man standing politely awaiting my decision was undoubtedly the most peculiar I had ever met, but then, I did not mix with the upper classes. Perhaps if I had served on a touring vessel, he would not seem odd. Perhaps he was perfectly normal, according to his station. And he did appear a most generous master. "I will take it, with my thanks, sir," I said.

His face broke into a smile. It warmed his whole demeanor and suddenly he seemed, not frightening, but warm and kind. "That is excellent good news," he said. "I will show you about the house and which room is to be yours. You'll have to stay the night, of course, but in the morning there is a train two hours after low tide."

I frowned. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Why, to return to London, to fetch your things. Unless you can send for them. That would be ideal."

"This is all I own in the world, all that does not lie at the bottom of the sea," I said, nodding to my leather case.

" _Oh._ Yes, of course. Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive. It's not how most people live."

"Still, it was thoughtless of me. Well then. Soon you will have to go over to town to get a warmer coat, unless you wish to never set foot outdoors until spring. Jane and Darcy will be here in the morning. They will be able to give you directions to a shop."

"Don't you go into town, sir?" I asked politely.

"I don't. Or rather, I go into it only to go out of it. The train," he clarified.

"I see. And Jane and Darcy are the women who do for you?"

"They are. Sisters. Both rather silly, but hardworking, and Jane in particular is quite intelligent when you look past the flightiness. Well! Shall we eat our suppers? I'm afraid it will be meager fare tonight, as they leave meals for me alone, but perhaps we shall find something else tucked away."

My stomach growled at the mention of food, and I colored. "Thank you. I will need little enough, after the potato I got at the train station."

"And how long before that was your last meal?"

"Five this morning," I admitted.

"Yes, we shall see what more we can find," he answered drily.

Again I followed him out of the sitting room. A a single candle lit our way as we walked down a wide hallway from which we turned into a narrow one. The stairs down were likewise narrow. Never meant for the foot of a gentleman.

The kitchen was dark, much too dark to see anything until the lamps were lit. Once it was illuminated, it had a warm, homely feel to it. Overall it was quite plain, but it was kept well scrubbed, and the copper sink and red checked curtains gave it a cheerful aspect that I found most welcome. My mother, rest her soul, had curtains similar to these in my childhood cottage.

"Please have a seat," I was told. I took one of the simple pine chairs, feeling markedly uncomfortable, as my new employer bustled about, removing the napkin that was spread over the single plate that sat waiting on the long wooden counter and moving half the food onto a second plate.

"Might I help with that, sir?" I asked. It felt terribly uncomfortable to sit there, watching him prepare my supper.

The look he cast me seemed almost tender in the candlelight. "We'll figure that out later. You've had a very long day, and what I expect came as something of a shock."

That I could hardly deny, and I sat silently.

"Ah! Yes, here we are. This should serve us nicely." In a matter of moments, the table was set with two plates, filled with not so much of either ham or peas as I would have liked, but they were followed by a whole loaf of bread, a jar of jam and a crock of butter. The sight of it gave me a wave of dizziness nearly as strong as what I had felt in the underground chamber; at the lodging-house, the food was always carefully portioned, and there had been no butter at all.

I had not realized how quickly I was eating until another piece of ham was slid onto my empty plate as I cut myself a fourth slice of bread. I looked up.

"Go on, have it," I was told.

My first thought was to argue, but I caught myself, remembering that the first rule of being a good servant (for all he said I was not one) was obedience. I ate it folded inside a piece of buttered bread and could scarce remember a meal half so good.

The plates were left on the table, though the bread was put back into its box to be kept fresh, and the butter and jam carefully closed, before he led me back upstairs. "Since you have no need to return to London, I will give you a better tour of the house tomorrow. For now, I am sure you are weary. The sherry is kept on the sideboard here, and you are to have what you like on those nights when I do not require your service," he said as we returned to the sitting room. He poured a small glass for each of us and raised his to me before dashing it back in a single swallow. I followed suit. It was nutty and lightly sweet, a far cry from the rough grog to which I had grown accustomed.

My bedroom was in the middle of the wing on the same floor, just before what Mr Laufeyson pointed out as his own. The bed was large, and covered in such plush fabrics that I could scarce see the rest of the room for how much I suddenly longed for it. The candle by my bed was lit, and I was bid good-night.

I woke in the morning thoroughly refreshed. The bed had proved every bit as luxurious as it had looked, and I remembered nothing from the moment I laid my head upon the pillow. The sheets were the whitest I had slept between in years, and the blue velvet cover atop the heavy quilts was so soft I could have stroked it all day, were I not so curious about the rest of the house. Along with a beautiful old wardrobe and washing stand, I had an earth closet of my own. I had read of such things, but it was my first time seeing or using one, and I found it both efficient and hygienic. My curtains were of the same velvet as the bedspread, I noted, and I curled my fingers into the cloth as I pulled them back to find a fine bright day outside. The bright sunlight made me blink rapidly as I adjusted to it, peering down to the ground and the sea below. My view was to the west, the side of the house I had not seen yesterday, and I looked in vain for the cherry trees for which I was certain the house had been named.

I easily found my way to the kitchen with my empty pitcher, hoping to collect some water for my ablutions. I found there two young women, laboring industriously. One was turned away, chopping a huge pile of vegetables, but the other one, shorter, with darker hair, was leaning over the table and kneading a huge pile of bread dough.

"You must be Mister Odinson," she said, straightening. Her eyes took me in rather long, I thought, especially considering that we had never been introduced. "Good morning."

At her words, her sister turned around. This one was slighter and a few years older, and her eyes lacked the slight gleam of cheerful licentiousness that shone in those of the younger. "Good morning," she said with a mannerly bob. "I am Jane, and this is my sister Darcy."

"Good morning. I beg your pardon for my dress, I did not know there would be others here so early. I came to fetch water."

"We come whenever the tide lets us," Darcy said. "It's an odd schedule, some days, but this is a good position."

"Did you sleep well?" asked Jane.

"Very well, I thank you. I cannot remember the last time I woke after dawn."

She smiled. "That is indeed a pleasure. There are times when we cannot come for several days straight, when the tide falls during the night, and we sleep late on those days. But here, give me your pitcher, and I will get your water."

"If you merely show me where it is found..."

"The pump is out that door," she said, nodding to the squat door past the looming oven. "But you'll only need it on those mornings when we cannot come. Otherwise the clean water will be in your room for you."

"I thank you. I'm still not quite sure of my place here," I told her. She was easy to talk to.

"Your place is whatever _he_ wants it to be," Darcy said.

"Shush! He is a good master. You would not care to lose this position," Jane scolded. She turned back to me. "He often seems - lonely. Though I am sure he would not say it, I believe he wishes you to be a companion."

A companion. I had heard of such things, of course, hired friends for old ladies or country girls, but never for a young man of vigor, as the master of the house seemed to be. And that did not explain the room below. Jane and Darcy did not seem aware of it, and I did not bring it up. Instead I asked about the name of the house. "I could see no cherry trees," I told them.

"Nor will you. They say the name comes from old king Henry's time, the one who broke with Rome. The monks here on the island refused to leave their home, and he sent his soldiers and they killed them all. The walls of the monastery were so spattered with blood, they said it looked like a great hill of cherries," Darcy said, sounding half breathless.

"Oh," I said, disquiet welling in my breast. I was by no means a Papist, but I still could not help the pang that caught in my throat at the thought of all those men of God, slaughtered. And I knew very well what that much blood looked like. What it smelled like. Whales bleed red, just like us.

"Don't listen to her. That's completely apocryphal," Jane said.

"Then you explain it," challenged Darcy.

"Something else," Jane said evenly. "No one would name their house after something half so lurid. And you're keeping the poor man standing here when he wants to wash and dress. Go fetch his water."

My walk back to my room was slow. For all Jane spoke more reason, Darcy's words were the ones that yet rang in my ears. I washed quickly and sat down at the mirror to shave. The face before me was still difficult to reconcile as my own. There was a scar on my cheek from the deep cut I had taken, and my hair was nearly to my shoulders. It was still brown, though the sun had lightened it. My cheeks were still half-gaunt from hunger, though my skin, which had been so deeply burned from going so long without any shade, was slowly returning to its natural golden color. My eyes were as blue as ever, but they looked... hollow. They had never looked so, before. I shaved quickly and turned away to dress. I got my clothes on and gave a quick rinse to my combinations. I was in the middle of tying my second shoe when there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find Mr Laufeyson without.

"Good morning. I am glad I did not wake you. I realized that I had not yet shown you the way to the dining room, and thought you would like to break your fast."

"My thanks. I need only finish this shoe," I told him. He waited patiently and then led me down the grand stairway to the ground floor, and thence to a room that I thought must be right next to the kitchens, though I could not hear their noise. He rang a bell and Darcy soon arrived with two plates laden with eggs and rashers and thin slices of toasted bread.

Perhaps it was my scrutiny of my own appearance that made me look so closely at his. The planes of his face were aristocratic; high, chiseled cheekbones and a fine nose spoke to centuries of careful breeding. His hair was over-long and over-black for fashion, but it seemed to suit him as it curled softly about his face, and the contrast made his light blue-green eyes almost glow.

I had felt far more comfortable eating in the kitchen; this room was clearly designed to be a display of wealth, with its grand furniture and the dazzling crystal chandelier that hung, unlit, above us. The walls were not only papered with an elaborate chevron pattern, they had at points been gilded. In my exhaustion the night before, I had not taken note of the china. Now I saw that it was of such translucent fineness that I hesitated to touch it.

As we ate he asked me about myself. I told him about my childhood in Plymouth, and of the excitement when my father's ship arrived safely home; about the way my mother wept during his long voyages, and of playing on the docks with my friends, and how my whole life I was trained for the sea. In turn, he told me of living on this island as a small boy, isolated from any companionship but parents and servants, and his parents often away for weeks or months in London. They always left him behind where the air was safer. He described the shock he had experienced when he was sent to school and had never a moment or a space of his own. He had gone on to college, following his parents' wishes, but when they died in the most recent cholera outbreak, he had returned to take the mastery of his house.

"And since then, I have lived as you now find me," he concluded.

I did not ask him about his _proclivities,_ as he called them. I was not entirely sure I wanted to know, and I rather thought I would know more soon enough.

"I am very glad to know more about you," I said.

"Yes, I can well imagine that you are," he said, sounding wry, before his tone shifted to brisk efficiency. "Shall I give you the tour now?"

"I would like that. Thank you."

We rose and left the room as one, turning away from the grand hallway. "As you likely surmised, the kitchens may also be accessed through this hallway," he said, swinging open a door. Jane was nowhere to be seen. Darcy looked up from the sink and bobbed a curtsey as she washed the pots from our breakfasts.

Heading back towards the hall, we stopped to go in another closed door, opposite the dining room. "The obligatory drawing room," he said. The room was closed and dusty; after all, he had said that his parents had been in London for some time before their deaths, so there had been no ladies in the house to make use of it. He closed the door and we went on.

We next crossed the hall to the opposing wing, which I had not yet entered. This one was shorter, with two doors only. He opened one and I followed him in to find myself standing in a massive library. The walls were covered in bookshelves, and the room extended to the end of the house and wrapped all the way around to the other door we had seen from without, with rows of pillars offering support where the walls clearly once had been. "When she found herself in a good mood, my nurse would occasionally play cache-cache with me. You can imagine how early in life my fondness for this room began," he told me. Indeed, he patted one of the pillars with more fondness than I had of yet seen him show to any thing living or dead.

Returning to the upper floor, I learned that our wing held, in addition to our bedrooms, two other bedrooms and a bathroom. "Though to tell you the truth, it has gone unused since my return. Jane and Darcy do enough without carrying huge vats of water up the stairs and down again. I find it simpler to heat the water and bathe in a small washtub by the kitchen fire. If you would prefer the use of the larger one here, though, of course you are welcome to it."

As with the floor below, the hallway in the opposite wing held only two doors. He opened the one on the left. "Do you play an instrument, Mister Odinson?"

I looked around. The room held a piano of lustrous dark wood, a harp, gilded and shining, and something else I did not know, a huge wooden thing like a giant fiddle with strings down the face. "I had a fiddle," I said. I had not realized until that very moment quite how much I had missed it.

I think he heard it in my voice. "I do not know how similar they are to play, but perhaps you would like to try the cello," he said. He ran his fingers across its strings. "I stay to the piano, myself. If you find yourself fond of this, perhaps we might play together some evenings."

"If my skills carry over, I would enjoy that," I told him.

"And across the hall is the billiard room, and in there, you _must_ give me some games," he said, leading me to it.

The billiard table itself was a lovely thing, the legs carved into fantastical creatures, their arms reaching up to support the table. At the far end of the room stood a repurposed desk, its surface pocked and marred. A small wooden box was on it, as was a decanter and set of glasses. "You saw where the sherry is kept; likewise, this is where the cognac and cigars are kept, and likewise, you are to help yourself, with the same conditions."

I nodded my acceptance and he smiled at me. "And so that is the house, other than the attics, which are closed up. I will not ask for your services for a few days, so you must consider yourself entirely at liberty until, oh, let us say, Thursday."

"Thank you, sir," I said. "I think I will go ask the women about where to buy a coat, that I might go get one tomorrow. The wind did bite cruelly as I came yesterday. After that I might read?" I could not help phrasing it as a question, for all he had told me that my time was my own.

"Yes, of course. The library is entirely at your disposal, as are all unlocked rooms."

I thanked him again and withdrew. As I walked down the stairs I could hear the lonely _clack!_ of one billiard ball striking another.

I found Jane alone in the kitchen, already busy at work preparing for our lunch. She dried her hands quickly when I entered the room.

"Please pardon my interruption," I asked. "I find myself in need of a winter coat, and hoped you might tell me where I could buy one at not too high a cost."

“Yes, of course. Indeed, my uncle Eric runs a clothing shop in this end of town. His prices aren’t the cheapest you’ll find in Barrow, but you’ll find no chalked cuffs in his shop, and he’ll deal with you fairly. Have you any paper?”

“None,” I said.

“No matter,” she told me. She sprinkled a light dusting on flour onto the table and began drawing in it with her finger as she spoke. “Here is the first road you will come to after you have crossed the heath. If you’ve followed the path which Darcy and I have worn, turn right, and then left on the first road that meets it. My uncle’s shop is two blocks along it, at the sign of the trousers. If he has nothing to fit your shoulders,” (for indeed, despite my over-slender state, my shoulders had lost none of their broadness) “then you might try at Hallum’s. Three blocks east from my uncle’s shop, at the sign of the waistcoat. Tell my uncle I have sent you, but tell Hallum nothing.”

“No love lost there?” I guessed.

“None. For years Hallum had the only store in town, until my uncle started his own. Hallum blamed him for taking away his customers, but the truth of it is that my uncle’s honesty was what made people prefer him.”

“And I shall follow in their custom. My thanks for this,” I said, gesturing at the map. “Shall I clean it?”

“No, Darcy will be back soon enough to knead the bread again, and she would have covered the table in flour had we not done it for her.”

“Then I will take my leave of you,” I said with a slight bow. A faint blush crossed her cheeks as she bobbed in answer.

I passed Darcy in the hallway as I went to the library. “I am already making myself useful,” I told her.

“There are many ways of doing that,” she answered.

The library was empty. I heard no sound of billiards from above; if they were still being played, the ceiling was too solid to admit the penetration of any sound. I walked along the edges of the room, taking in at first little more than the organization of the books. Here were far more than I had ever seen together in my lifetime, and though there were many in languages I could not read, the English books alone would have been enough to fill the rest of my lifespan, were I to do nothing else. The family had collected widely, and over many generations; I found books from a single year ago and books from two centuries ago. In my awe, I wandered right up to the ringing of the bell for lunch without ever selecting a title. The reverent hush of the room reminded me that I had spent my Sunday in travel rather than in prayer, and I resolved to return here and make what amends I could once the meal was concluded.

I met Mr Laufeyson at the foot of the stairs. “Have you had an enjoyable morning?” he asked solicitously.

“Very, I thank you,” I told him. “I confess your library is so grand I could not find a book.”

He laughed. I had not fully appreciated the sound of his laugh when I had heard it the day before, nigh-overwhelmed with exhaustion as I was. In pitch, it was lower than his voice, which was itself a smooth even tenor; it was rich and full and put me in mind of the dark red wood of the piano I had seen in the conservatory. “I confess, I find myself at times in the same difficulty, without your excuse of newness.”

We had returned to the dining room and taken our seats as we talked; soon Darcy and Jane entered, each bearing a large and laden plate. We had roast and potatoes and carrots to eat, and Jane quickly returned with a decanter of wine. My surprise must have been on my face, for Mr Laufeyson smiled again and explained, “the large and hot meals are eaten in this house not by time of day, but by when the tide allows them to be made, so you shall at times find yourself eating lunch and dinner, and at other times dinner and supper. As you see, today we shall be having the latter.”

“I can fetch you water, if you would prefer,” Jane said, seeing my eyes on the wine.

I felt the master’s gaze on me, waiting for my reply. “I certainly cannot disdain that which is enjoyed by my betters,” I said. He sat back with something upon his face which I found myself at a loss to interpret. Once Jane was gone, he explained.

“I know you must find me strange in my behavior towards you. Indeed, it is new to me as well, to behave so to someone in my employ. I do so because I wish you to view me with enough sense of familiarity that you will not hesitate to carry out your few duties.”

I admit, I flushed to hear the room below referred to so (what seemed to me) openly, and moreover to be spoken of in the very dining room of the house.

He smiled and poured the wine.

Our conversation was light and focused on the changes in London since he had last been. It was some years before, I learned; the grand station of St. Pancras from which the Midland trains now departed was a name and an engraving in a newspaper to him, nothing more. Indeed, he had never even ridden the underground, and he was full of questions once he learnt that I myself had taken a go on it, when I was newly arrived in London and earning money with my words.

We finished our meal with slices of apple tart, which I found to be very good indeed. The crust was flakey and the apples of a vibrant fresh flavor, and its sweetness lingered with me as I wished him a good afternoon and returned alone to the library. I selected myself a small prayerbook of what was, at least to me, uncommon beauty. It was printed on a good heavy paper, not at all like the books to which I was accustomed, and the beginnings of each verse had been painted blue and gold by a light and elegant hand. Little flowers ornamented the margins of the pages, adding further charm to the whole.

The book was small enough to fit easily into my hand, and so I took it to the snug windowseat built into the bookcases. It had been designed entirely for comfort, I thought; not only the seat itself but the sides were cushioned, and deep enough that I could remove my shoes and sit with my side to the window, letting the sun’s raking light bring the gold leaf to vibrant life.

It was a comfort, retreating into the familiar prayers in this nest of lush red velvet and the warmth of the sun. It was only when I found myself relaxed that I came to see how on edge I had been. I read on, my lips moving silently with the words before me, slipping further and further. The warm and softness of my retreat acted upon me, and when I reached one of my favorite prayers, I let my eyes fall shut to recite it to myself…

I woke with a start and a bolt of shame. This was not the first time I had fallen asleep at prayer, but in those other times, I had been starving and exhausted with fighting for my very life, and I trusted in Divine Benevolence that my failing would be met with grace. This time, however, I had no such excuse. I opened the book, which had fallen shut, and took up where I had left off.

Perhaps three pages more had passed when I heard the creaking of leather and looked up. Mr Laufeyson was sitting in one of the chairs, half-hidden in shadow, watching me. His lips were still dark from the wine. When I met his gaze, he rose and approached me. “I had no wish to disturb you. I find it… peaceful, at times, to be here. This room was built over the monastery’s graveyard.”

“So there really was a monastery here?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. I take it you’ve already heard the tale,” he answered. He ran his fingers through my hair as one might with a dog or a lover.

“I have,” I told him, feeling stranger by the second as his slender fingers continued to play idly. I could not help thinking of his words yesterday. _Have you ever lain with a man, Mister Odinson?_ and I blushed. His hand slipped down to cup my cheek.

“I do so love to see you redden at my words. Your time will soon come to redden me in turn. Though not my face,” he said, turning away.

The stirring in my trousers was even more unsettling than his words themselves.

At supper – a cold meal, left on plates in the kitchen and covered by napkins, as with that of the night before – he displayed nothing of the queer mood which had seemed to afflict him earlier in the day. He caught me up into idle, friendly banter, and when we had finished eating he invited me to a game of billiards. “I have not played in- oh, Lord! A year, at least,” I said.

“Then you must take it up again, before you lapse even further,” he said.

“Indeed, that would be a shame. I was once reputed a quite tolerable hand at it.”

We retired upstairs, where he poured the brandy and lit two cigars while I knelt to light the fire, and soon the room was very jolly indeed, the hush and crackling of the fire giving warmth as much by its sound as its heat, and with the scent of brandy and cigars in the air and our laughter at the rust upon my game, I could almost forget all that had happened earlier.

That night, the wind sounded like it was crying.


	2. The Duty Begins

I rose early the next morning, grateful to find myself back on my normal routine after the previous day's lie-in. The water pitcher in my room had been filled before the women left last night, and I was able to wash and dress quickly. On the newel post at the top of the stairs was an envelope with my name on it. I realized it was the first time I had seen my employer's handwriting. He used a narrow nib with a rich dark green ink, and while his script was too sharp and spidery to be truly handsome, I could not help thinking that it suited him all the better. I picked it up to find that it was both startlingly heavy and rather loud, and I froze. When no sound came from the other bedroom, I slipped down to the kitchen where I could make more noise without fear of disturbing the sleeper above.

The envelope held pound coins. Ten of them. There was also a note in the same sharp writing. "I neglected to provide you with this in person yesterday evening. As I told you, your clothing is to be provided for, and considering the size of your valise, I suspect you are in need of rather more than the coat you mentioned. I trust this will prove sufficient to fill your wardrobe and find yourself a suitable lunch. While you are in town, I also need you to fetch me some more ink. If you go to the stationer's on Broad street, across from the church, tell them for whom you work and they will blend more of my color. This evening's low tide is at 7 8." It was signed with an ornate double-L in place of his name. I put both note and money back into the envelope and tucked them safely into the pocket of my waistcoat, where they would be vulnerable to neither loss nor theft, and turned to fix my breakfast.

It seemed that upon my arrival, the women had doubled their bread-baking, and a whole loaf remained in the box from yesterday. I cut off two thick slices of bread and covered them with blackberry jam and so much butter that it seemed to me that it was nearly as thick a serving as was the bread itself. Remembering the harsh sound of the front door when I had arrived, I elected to remove myself through the kitchen door and to circle the house.

Despite having the pump pointed out to me, I had not yet been out the kitchen door, and nor was I fully prepared for the view of the house from this side. Looking up at it now, it bore a vaguely menacing aspect, as though the house itself were staring back at me. I shook off my foolish imaginings and turned my tread to go around the smaller of the two side wings, where I might take a fond look at the library through the windows before making the crossing to the mainland. The wind was even more bitter than it had been last evening, and I was glad to be free for the day, that I might find myself a good coat before it grew yet worse.

There was no path beyond the one worn down between the door and the water pump, and I strode through tall grass that grabbed at my legs as I walked. The ground was soft, almost spongy; it is to this alone that I can ascribe the reason I looked down when I felt smooth stone beneath my foot. There were markings on it, and I scuffed away the dirt and grass seeds to better investigate.

It was a gravestone. I had not disbelieved Mr Laufeyson when he had said that the library had been built over the old cemetery, but I suppose I had rather assumed that it had been exhumed and moved first. If nothing else, I would have expected the monks to have taken away their dead confratelli at the time of the Dissolution. Unless Darcy's tale was true, a voice whispered in the back of my head. I have always had a particular aversion to the idea of treading upon a grave, one of which my mother could never break me no matter how she tried. I found it odd that this affliction would yet pursue me, after all I had survived in the interim. I shook my head to clear it and continued around the house.

I had just turned the bend in the stone stairs when I spied Jane and Darcy, just setting foot onto the causeway. I hailed them, but they could not hear me over the waves. Once I was on the level with them, though, they spied me and waved gaily. We met near the center and bid each other good day.

"Well, I suppose we shall see you again as we cross back," Jane said.

"We'll tell you of his mood," Darcy added.

"Darcy!" hissed her sister.

"He has to live with him. Would you not wish to know, were you to live there with him?"

"There is no thought of that. We already have talk enough about us, simply working there alone with him."

There was something in her tone that caught my ear. "Has it harmed your chances?" I asked quietly.

She turned to Darcy. "We must hurry, breakfast has never yet cooked itself. Good day, Mr Odinson."

Darcy trailed after her sister, looking back over her shoulder at me with an apologetic smile. I smiled my own apology in return; I had been too forward, and made up my mind that I would apologize to her when I found the appropriate moment.

I found their uncle's shop easily, the old-fashioned sign with the bright blue trousers swinging gaily in the cold breeze off the water, but the door was locked. I peered through the window, having to stoop slightly to see through it. No one was within, but pasted in one corner was a tidy card announcing that the store would open promptly at 8 each morning but the Sabbath. It could not have been much before 7 45, and as I was quickly taking a chill once I no longer had my vigorous walking to warm me, I resolved at once to take a turn about the surrounding blocks and thus to begin to learn my new home. I walked further up the street upon which the shop was found until I reached the next street, whereupon I turned right. This looked to be an old section of town, full of tightly packed houses with stores on the first floors, still closed up for the night. For the most part, the ground floors were made of the red brick I had noted upon my arrival into town, while the upper floors were wooden. These tended to be weathered to a uniform silver gray and many of them yet lacked glass windows, making do with greased paper and tight shutters. It put me in mind of my childhood home, though my mother always took pride in keeping our cottage well painted and protected from the salt spray that goes everywhere in a seaside town.

I circled four blocks, and when I returned to the shop, I found the door being opened by a man of middling years with a square and open face. "Good morning, sir," he said politely as I approached.

I bid him good morning and introduced myself.

"Ah, Jane sent you! A good girl, Jane. I have always been quite fond of her."

"She spoke highly of you as well," I said.

He chuckled. "Comparing me to Hallum, no doubt," he said. "Well, sir! Tell me what I might do for you today."

"I am in most particular need of a warm overcoat for the winter, as you see me before you in my warmest clothing. More shirts, and another pair of trousers and a waistcoat perhaps, would also be of use. I have few possessions, and with your nieces able to work only as the tide allows, I fear I would be forever sitting about wishing for my laundry to dry."

He looked me over with a careful eye, taking in my height, my shoulders, my over-thin waist. I stood, self-conscious, as he made a slow circle about me, before turning and shuffling rapidly through the rack nearest him. "This is the coat for you," he said, holding out one of thick gray wool. "Try it to be sure, but that's the one."

I shrugged into it gently, as the wool of my week-day suit coat grabbed at the rough inside, and I had no wish to damage it with tugging. He was right, it did fit well. Oh, it was too big around, but I could move my arms freely and the sleeves were long enough, a rare luxury.

"Hmm. Yes, it is loose now, but I wager that soon enough you'll be filling it out handsomely, with what Darcy tells me of the food at the house. If your shirts do you well enough now, you'd be better off buying yourself a few extra collars and cuffs and waiting, else you'll be back here soon selling me your too-small clothing. Same with the trousers. Have you any other needs? My wife is a good seamstress, and she knits well. Socks? Gloves?"

"Both of those," I realized. "And a warm hat, and more combinations. I have only two of those, as well."

"My wife is an old-fashioned woman, sir, who prefers to sew undershirts and drawers, if those would serve you?"

"They will," I said, and he pulled a small ledger out from beneath his counter.

"The coat is one pound ten shillings. A pair of socks will run you one shilling, the gloves one and four, a cuff and collar set one and threepence, and the sets of underthings four shillings each."

I tallied it quickly in my head. "I would like one pair of gloves and four more days' worth of the others," I said. I felt almost dizzy at the luxury, but Mr Laufeyson had told me to buy what I needed.

"Anything else? A scarf? Shoes?"

"Yes," I said. I suppressed a laugh at the thought that I could buy what I needed. Whatever I needed. I, who had not so many months ago eaten the bodies of my dead fellows and taken their clothes to shade my eyes from the sun.

His pen scratched my entry into his book, adding in the hat and scarf, before bringing out some shoes for me to try and a small stool upon which to sit. The first pair of shoes I tried were too large, and the bend at the toes pinched despite their size, but the second pair suited me well. I kept them on and gave him my old ones which he took as part-payment. I put on my new coat and received his promise that Jane and Darcy would bring me my new things as they were made.

"Before I leave, would you direct me towards the stationer's?" I asked. "I am only my second time in Barrow, and prior to today I was hurrying to beat the tide."

"It is my pleasure," he said, walking with me towards the door. The directions he gave me were every bit as good as those I had received from Jane. He also recommended me a public house at which I might find myself a hot meal while I waited to return across the causeway. I thanked him and bid him a good day. I had over six pounds still in my pocket when I left his shop.

It had been years since I last found myself in a stationer's. As with other boys of my station, my schooling had been done mostly with a hornbook and chalkboard, paper being too expensive for such wasteful purposes as learning handwriting. I bought my first paper at the age of sixteen, when I left school and found my first position as a greenhand, and I promised I would write my mother. This stationer's shop was like to a double of that; perhaps they all appeared alike. Even the man behind the counter, with his shiny nose and thick sideburns, appeared the same.

I told him what I needed, and before my eyes the ink was blended. I watched as black was added to a bright (I might almost say garish, but I could imagine it suiting the taste of many) green, well blended, and each time tested before another drop was added.

"There you are, sir," he said, setting the bottle on the counter. He must have seen me feasting my eyes on his stocks of paper, for he then asked, "anything else for you today? This is just in from Italy, and a lovely creamy paper it is," he said, holding up a sheet. It looked every bit as fine as he said. I could imagine the feel of it beneath my fingers. I could _feel_ how my pen would act upon it, the broad solid nib I favored catching luxuriously upon each of the fat cotton fibers that gave it such a velvety face.

"No, thank you," I told him.

I had no one to write.

I found myself little inclined to arrive at the public house at the midday crush. Barrow was becoming a port of some note, and I could not trust that even this far from society my name would not be known. I had little desire to speak of the past. Instead I wandered the town, looking in shop windows until the sun was far enough past its zenith that I could rely on finding few people yet dining.

Indeed, by the time I found my way back, the room was empty of any but the woman working behind the bar. She was busy wiping fingerprints from the glassware, holding each one up to the light to fix it with a critical eye.

"Good day, sir," she said when I entered.

"Good day. I am in to dine, if it is not too late?"

"Midday is just pies, sir, as I don't have much in the way of customers with time to sit down to a joint. If that will suit you, there are a few remaining."

I assured her that it would suit me well. She pulled my pint and disappeared to the kitchen, returning with a steaming pie. "Chicken and carrot, today," I was told.

I made quick work of it. The crust had gone dry, having been kept warm in the oven for hours now, but the filling was hearty and savory, and I had never - even _before_ been a picky eater. I could feel her watching me as she kept on with her polishing, but she spoke no more until I was finished.

"You're new to Barrow. Are you on the crew for the steelworks?"

I drained my glass. "Indeed, no. I have just taken a position in service."

She cocked her head. "Not many houses in Barrow have people in service."

"I work at Cherry Hill," I told her.

She hid her feelings better than the woman at the train station, but I saw the same tightening cross her brow.

"Are there... things I ought to know about the house? I confess, I travelled here from London and know nothing of its reputation."

She schooled her face. "Oh, no. Only idle stories which I would blush to repeat. Another pint for you?"

I felt my own lips tighten. "No, thank you. I had best be going," I told her.

I was halfway out the door when she called to me. "Wait!" she said. I paused and turned back. "Stay safe out there on that island, sir. It is quite lonesome."

I could tell she wished to say more, and I paused, blinking slightly in the dim glare of the veiled sun, but she gave me no more than a nod before disappearing back inside.

A bank of low clouds had crept over the town while I was within. The sun itself was no more than a slightly brighter gray in a sky of gray, and I put little faith in my ability to know the time by it. I had seen such skies deceive far too often. Nor did I trust myself to find the causeway under a darker sky and a later tide. I traced my steps back south, finding, as it always seemed to happen, that the going felt much quicker now that the way was familiar. Yes, there was that particularly tall patch of vetch on my left, and not long after it the broad low shrubs on my right.

By the time I reached the shore I was glad I had come early; soon the path across the beach would no longer be visible. I positioned myself as best I could so that the cheerful lights of Cherry Hill might guide me, even if there were no other light remaining. I sat and watched the silhouette of the house fade into darkness and the windows glow to life.

I realized with a start that I had no way of knowing when it was safe to start across the causeway. I left my perch on the stiff scrub to approach the beach, wondering if I might be able to tell by the sound of the waves, but I could not. Just as I was beginning to despair, another light appeared on the island. The women! Of course! - they would need a lantern to find their safe way home. When I saw, from the bobbing of their light, that they had begun to make the crossing, I strode confidently forwards.

They walked more slowly than I, and I was nearly two thirds of the way to the house when we met.

"He seems to be in high spirits," Darcy told me before Jane could shush her.

"I am grateful to hear it," I answered. Outside of their uncle's shop, I had found little enough welcome in Barrow that I was glad to return to the house, and gladder to know that I could expect a cheerful welcome. Perhaps there would be more billiards, I thought, or I might amuse him with my first attempts at the cello.

"Good evening," Jane said, taking her sister's arm and pulling her away as she had done that morning.

I found the master neither at billiards nor his piano; I next tried the library, and found him reading in the same seat where he had appeared the day before. A tall candelabra stood on the floor next to him, and cast its flickering light down upon his pages.

"Do not let me disturb you, sir," I said as he looked up. "I will leave your ink on your desk and withdraw."

"Not at all," he told me, setting aside his book. "I was merely waiting for company. Do you play at whist?"

"I do," I said, confused. "But I have always played with four."

"You will learn German whist quickly, then. It is little different."

I followed him to the sitting room, where he poured us both glasses of sherry and we sat down to the game. He was right that I would pick it up quickly, and within a few hands we were joking and laughing. We must have played some two hours before returning below to eat our cold suppers. The master fell quiet once we were away from our play, and we ate fully half our meals in silence.

"You have no obligations to me outside our agreement, you know," he said abruptly.

"Sir?"

"Billiards. Cards. Join me only if you wish to," he said.

"I have greatly enjoyed this evening, as I did last night," I told him. "But I thank you, all the same, for the freedom."

He nodded, seeming pleased that it was settled, and once again became very jolly.

I retired early that evening, for my walking had exhausted me far too much. The sisters were good cooks, and with the fresh air here I greatly looked forward to at last regaining my strength, but in the meantime I felt such a desire for rest as could only be explained by my condition rather than the exercise itself.

The wind was even louder that night.

 

I slept somewhat later the next morning and woke refreshed to find my room full of sunshine. The night had been so dark I had not even thought to pull my curtains. I rose and washed rapidly, for the water felt particularly cold that morning. It was time to shave again, I decided, examining myself in the mirror, and sat down to remove my bristles. The sharp blade scraped over my skin, down my throat. Once smoothed, I did my exercises before dressing.

I met Mr Laufeyson in the hallway as I left my room. As we walked together towards the kitchen he inquired politely after my rest, and after assuring him that it was satisfying, learned the same of his own.

"Please allow me," I told him as he opened the breadbox.

He paused, his hand half-raised to take the loaf. His eyes met mine and then he took a seat with a smile. I cut the bread for us both, and found, when I went to fetch the butter, that a piece of cheese and a pot of mustard had been left for us.

"They try to give me some variety, on the mornings when I have a cold breakfast," he told me.

He seemed subdued this morning, and it was with a surge of relief that I heard women's voices approaching the door. They came in just as we were finishing eating, faces rosy with chill. The master bid them good morning and withdrew. I stayed to talk, hoping I might find a way to speak to Jane privately. I found it when she began to wash up from our breakfasts while Darcy went upstairs to see to the rooms.

"I spoke out of turn yesterday. It was not my place, and you have my apologies," I said.

"Oh. It's-" she waved her hands, flinging water about the room. "Oh dear, did I hit you? I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, I- please don't worry about it. Darcy would have told you soon enough, anyway. I did have an understanding at one time, but it is now at an end. He was waiting to have enough for us to marry, and my father was too ill to work, and when these positions became available Darcy and I had no choice. But it doesn't make us the most desirable of brides," she finished. Her words were hurried.

"It seems to have cast a pall upon me in the town, as well," I said.

Her face darkened. "There is no call for them to disdain you," she said fiercely.

"Nor you," I answered.

"It's different, you know it is," she said.

"I know much about being judged for things beyond one's helping. Have you heard of the Essex?"

"The- _oh_! Is that you? You were one of the survivors?"

"Barely, but yes. And now you know my own shame, and my secret."

"You were keeping yourself alive. There is no shame in that," she told me.

"No shame in what?" Darcy asked from the doorway.

"Not eavesdropping, certainly," Jane said. She turned back to the sink to continue her washing, but the smile she gave me was more friendly than I had yet had from her.

I found the library empty, and I again picked up the lovely prayer book, seeking some consolation after talking about things best forgotten. I fell easily into the refuge it offered, and when the bell rang for lunch I was startled to find how long I had read.

Mr Laufeyson seemed more himself at this meal, though he was still quiet and pensive compared with the prior evenings. I thanked him for the coat and shoes and tried to return the rest of his money.

"Oh, keep it," he told me. "If you will be in need again soon, you may as well keep it."

I thanked him for his generosity, and he waved an idle hand. "It is little enough to me," he said.

After we ate I spent some time in the sitting room, playing at solitaire. That grew dull soon enough and I began to wander back downstairs, thinking perhaps to find a novel, but when I heard music, I followed it to the conservatory.

He was sitting at the piano, playing from memory. His eyes were closed and despite the melancholy of the air, his face was open and peaceful. I stood still, listening, desirous that not so much as a creaking chair might interrupt. And indeed, he played on, heedless of my presence, until the piece was done. I could not restrain my applause; it was a beautiful composition, played with unusual sensitivity of feeling. I said as much when he thanked me.

"Just a little something I wrote to amuse myself. One must find ways to pass the time," he said.

"How well indeed do I know that, sir. Why, on a whaler, one might go weeks without a single sighting."

"What did you do, to fill up the days?" he asked me, leaning forward. This - daily life, not terror and confusion - was something where the papers had shown no interest.

"Cards, when the air below decks was tolerable enough. Carving. I was rather a good hand at scrimshaw. Some men also whittled, but I never picked that up. Music. I would play my fiddle, and others would play their pipes or an accordion. Nothing so good as you, though, sir."

He shrugged. " One of the few pastimes of an only child. It made it easy to grow skilled. Shall I play you something more?"

"Please. I like it very much."

He rose and opened his bench to shuffle through the scores. "Ah, yes. I think you will enjoy this one," he said, picking one out. "I shall need you to turn the page at my nod."

I took my place next to him and he began to play. It put me in mind of a print I had seen, a young lady playing the piano while her suitor looked on. I watched his fingers as they skimmed over the keys. They were long and fine and I could scarce look away to turn his page.

 

He played perhaps two hours before leaning back and looking up at me. "Now you, you must take a turn on the cello," he said.

I laughed. "I rather think I had best take a great many turns on it before inflicting my noise upon you."

"Nonsense," he answered, leaping up and turning to the shelves behind him. "My father was forever buying music books, there must be something here to get you started."

He cut quite the figure, I thought, standing there with his head titled to read the spines and his hands clasped behind him. The slim cut of his coat emphasized his narrow hips and the length of his arms. "Ah! Here we are," he cried, plucking down a slim volume and holding it out in offering.

I took it and looked inside. It began with a very long rumination on the instrument, but that was followed by several engravings showing how to sit, how to fit one's hand upon the neck, how to hold the bow. For all its size, the principles, at least, were not unfamiliar. I sat down and took up the bow. My first few notes were hesitant and discordant, but within a few minutes the feeling of it came back, and while I yet knew no fingering or notes, even to play a scale, those single tones I could play came out dulcet.

I worked my way back and forth across the strings, letting my arms adjust to the size of it before I took up the book to study the fingering diagrams. He stood, watching, with a smile tilting the corners of his mouth. At last he sat down at the piano and began to pluck out a light air. It was simple but cheerful as it danced over my own low, resonant tones.

"Did I not tell you that we would play well together?" he asked.

 

The music had kept my mind off the fact that tomorrow was Thursday, but as we rose at the call of the bell, images of the room below flooded my thoughts. I fear I was no good company at dinner, and I retired to bed early that night. The wind had not yet started its weeping, and despite my inner perturbation I slept well.

Though I rose early, Mr Laufeyson was already in the kitchen when I arrived. He had cut himself a single slice of bread and seemed to have forgotten it halfway through. He sat, staring out the window at the sky. It was still dark in the west, but from where we sat we could see the thin clouds beginning to purple. I tried to think of something - anything - else, but his queer state of agitation made it impossible. "At least have your tea, sir," I prompted.

"What? Oh, yes," he said vaguely, looking around as though he had forgotten where we were.

I spent the day in a fit of nerves. I went to the library and picked up my prayer book, but I set it down unopened. I felt sick at the thought of touching it with the same hands that would shortly be doing such things as I knew waited for me. A novel served little better. That task which had seemed odious but bearable, back when I was exhausted and starving, proved much nearer to loathesome now that I was fed and rested and found the moment upon me.

I wandered to the kitchen, hoping that some conversation - sensible with Jane, lively with Darcy - might shake me from my mood, but they sent me away. "We're terribly sorry, sir, but we have far too much to do. There's only two more days before the tides are too late for us to come work, and we need to put up six days' worth of food before we go."

Desirous as I was of distraction, I could hardly ask them to forgo their work, and I went upstairs to amuse at billiards. That lasted perhaps half an hour before I drifted off to the card table. The master was no better; indeed, he did not seem to last so long as ten minutes at any pursuit he took up. By the time our evening meal came, he was fairly vibrating with anticipation. He spoke little and ate less, and when Jane arrived with the wine, he sent it back and ordered water.

We were both in the library, pretending to read, when the women came to bid us good evening. We wished them a warm and safe walk home, and they withdrew. The master rose and stood in the window, watching as their lantern bobbed away into the darkness. When they were well away, he turned to me. "Fifteen minutes?" he asked.

I nodded.

We left the library together. I went upstairs. He did not.

In my room, I dipped my cloth in my wash pitcher and ran it over my face. I felt like my skin was burning, like my collar was too tight, like I couldn't breathe. Worst of all, I felt a stirring that should not have existed. When I could delay no longer, I looked around my room. It was the first time I had slept in a bedroom with a fireplace and an always-full basket of coal beside it; when winter came, I should sleep in warmth. I had a large bed, filled with down, and a down duvet atop and as much food as I could eat. Here was warmth and comfort and generosity and all I had to do was satisfy one request. I went downstairs.

He had lit the torches and he stood waiting for me in a dressing gown. If he wore anything else, it was little enough I could not see it. His smile for me was shaky. "While we are here, I would ask that you call me Loki," he said.

"Very well. Loki," I said. "How shall we start?"

"Where should you like me?"

I looked around at the offerings. The stocks were clearly out of the question for this first time; they bore too much of the punitive, when I still had little grasp of the underpinnings of his desire. Likewise the whipping post. "On the table," I said.

He untied his belt and slipped the gown from his shoulders, leaving himself bare before me. The cut of his garments had told no tales; he was quite beautifully formed, with narrow waist and hips above thighs that bore just the right amount of muscle. His shoulders were finely shaped, and his arms bore all the elegance promised by his hands. His-

I turned away, blushing.

He folded his gown neatly and set it down upon the shelf. "This is here, if you have need," he said, raising a small jar. The table was high, and he first sat upon the edge before turning and drawing his knees under him to crawl to the center. It was a striking sight, to see my finely bred master crawling on all fours like a beast, and I felt a palpitation within my chest that I refused to acknowledge. He settled to his stomach and stretched his arms and legs to the corners of the table. These had bonds attached to them, which I elected not to use.

"How much?" I asked, hoping he would take my meaning, and not force me to explain.

His voice was clipped and precise as he answered. "Thoroughly reddened, from below the waist to the tops of the thighs. Moderate bruising. No bleeding, if possible. I find myself lacking confidence in Darcy's ability to hold her tongue, were she to find herself washing blood stains from my linens."

I approached the rack of implements. I had not given it close attention before; as I surveyed them now, I felt a wave of dizziness pass over me. I myself had never committed an offense that warranted a lashing, but as first mate, I had administered far more than I cared to remember. I had not been given such a choice, though; on the ship there was only one flogger, made of nine thin tails of stiff bull's-leather, and the only decision whether or not to tie dulled nails to a few of them. It was something the captain, not I, dictated. I dreaded using the nails, and would feel sick as I sat down to tie them to the blood-stiffened strands. Fortunately, it was a thing done only twice by my hand, but I could still remember the unearthly screams as it came down on the bare back on the insubordinate crewman.

The harshest of the tools here appeared to be similar in construction, but of a softer leather. It would be difficult to cut with this one. I turned away from it, all the same; if reddening were my goal, I wanted something broader. I first took down a flogger made of red and black leather, the colors woven together over the handle and splitting into a cascade of broad tails below. I chose a simple riding crop to pair with it; if I found the flogger on its own unable to give the requested bruising, the crop would no doubt provide that which was lacking.

I returned to the table. "Loki, are you ready?" I asked.

He nodded. I watched as his fingers and toes curled, and his buttocks trembled in anticipation. I took a deep breath, and then I did what I had to.

The thick tails moved slowly through the air, compared to those on the implement to which I was accustomed, lacking the too-familiar _swish_. Indeed, it was nearly silent until the moment it crashed down onto his bared skin with a dull thud. He gave no reaction beyond a sharp inhale through his nose. Had I not known the power I put into the swing, I would have thought it a weak strike. A second on the same place made him start to pink. A third, fourth, fifth fell in rapid succession and at last his skin was red and he could not contain his cries.

I moved my attentions lower. There was a brilliant swatch across the fullest part of his buttocks; I left a patch of white and next beat him about the tops of his thighs, just until they were pink, before going higher, barely below his waist. Now that I knew how much attention it took to bring him to the full flush of color, I began to grow more confident with the instrument. I varied my strikes from place to place, at times waiting a long while between them and at times laying them on without pause.

At last I decided to take up the crop, which had til now hung neglected at my waist. I switched tools quietly, so he would have no awareness of the coming change until he heard the sharp sound of it cutting through the air. And yes, there was that swish, there was that slap that I remembered, and with them an abrupt change in the sounds he made. The flogger had made him give long, moaning cries; this brought sounds that were almost gasps of shock. "Oh!" he cried with each cruel strike. The growing intensity of his tone gave me pause.

I had never been the one to decide before when such a thing was completed; before, the captain had stood by and given the word. Now it was up to me, and I felt the full weight of the matter. He was thoroughly reddened, as I had been told, but I had no good idea of what would be considered 'moderate' bruising. Nor, indeed, did I know how much I had caused. There were four darker stripes across his skin where the color was mottled, and these I trusted would bruise, but whether or no more would appear, I had no knowledge. I laid on again with the flogger, hoping perhaps his cries might provide me with some guidance.

Here I was correct. I began to lay on more lashes, and with each, his cries grew louder, till at the sixth his whole body stiffened and trembled. This I deemed to be as far as I dare go, until I had learned better what I was to do.

"That is all," I said, hanging up the tools.

"Thank you. I will see to things here," he said.

It was only as I left that I saw there was something shining and thick, puddling on the table by his hip.


	3. The Other

Before I went to bed, I poured the wax from my candle onto my dressing table to let it cool somewhat; when it was soft but solid, I mashed it into my ears to block the noise of the wind. I could not bear the thought of hearing it that night. Once it was in place, I could hear only the sound of my pulse and my breathing. I undressed and left my clothes upon the chest at the foot of my bed, too weary to bother with hanging them. I slid into bed, grateful to see the end of the day. I was in deep need of rest and sleep.

Sleep I got, but of rest I took very little. No sooner had I sunk into the sweet arms of Hypnos than I was roused by the hand of Phobetor, his brother-god of nightmares. He was wearing the guise of James and shaking me awake on _that_ night.

"Sir, please," James said as I woke. There was a glowing lantern hanging from my ceiling; he must have put it there before rousing me.

"James, what is it?" I asked, sitting bolt upright. My status as first mate meant I was not to be disturbed at night except in an emergency; to be summoned at this hour could only mean something dire had occurred.

"No harm, sir, no crisis," he said. His hand was on my chest. "But I... please, sir."

"Speak, boy, out with it," I said.

"I am so lonely," he breathed, and brought his lips to mine.

It is true that the devil wears the face of desire. I had stayed strong so long, resisting temptation when others succumbed all around me. Five years I had been at sea, and five years I had held true to myself and my beliefs. But the softness of his lips - and how soft they were! Despite all the salt sea air, they were soft - proved my undoing. He unbuttoned my shirt and slid it away from me, and then those soft lips moved downwards, suckling at the stiff buds on my chest as he shucked off his own shirt. His skin gleamed where the lantern's gaze skimmed across it.

My blankets had pooled in my lap when I had sat up, and he shoved them away. His hand skimmed lower, cupping around my prick through my thin drawers and giving a moan of pleasure at the feel of it beneath him. He had me bared and stood to remove the rest of his clothes. If only! If only he had taken a few moments longer, I might have regained my resolve, but before I could gather myself to send him away, he was back in my arms, grasping my prick and calling it a jewel and kissing me as wantonly as I had seen from any whore in the ports.

"You must know, sir, how deeply all the men long for this," he told me, giving it a squeeze. "And to think, I am the one to feel it, the one to know the feel of it inside. Oh! Promise me you shall spend inside," he begged.

"I shall," I promised.

He produced a small jar of ointment, with which he coated my prick before dipping two fingers inside it and reaching behind himself.

"What are you doing?" I asked, finding my voice sharper than I had intended, for he had roused me beyond reason.

"An engine of such handsome size needs the way prepared. A few moments lost to stretching gains many more in pleasure," he explained.

I must have been lost entirely to dissipation, then, for I ordered him to show me. He rose with a grin and turned so that his hips were towards the light, and I could see his fingers sliding obscenely into himself. I watched in fascination as he thrust and twisted them, working himself open, until he declared himself unable to delay a moment's longer. He slung one leg over me and, taking my prick firmly in his hand to still it, lowered himself.

From the moment I felt it catch at the edge of his hole I was in ecstasy; here was tightness and heat and pleasure as I had never known, and my desire for more only grew as I was given it. At last he was settled quite firmly atop me, and he fairly panted with desire as he met my eyes. He rose up, so high I was nearly lost, and I found myself unable to bear the thought and thrust up, needing to bury myself within him, only to find him sliding back down to meet me. Our combined motions gave it a dizzying power that I confess I thought I might die without. I took his hips in my hands and lifted him up, slamming him down upon me as I drove up into him, hard, vicious.

"Oh, sir, there's no feeling in the world like to that. Fuck me, yes..." James moaned.

His voice was far too loud and I shoved him off me. Before he could do more than begin to protest, I had one sleeve of his shirt buried in his mouth and his eyes gleamed wickedly in his excitement. He rolled over onto all fours and thrust his hips up, staring at me over his shoulder with absolute impudence. I took my place behind him and pulled him open and pushed my way back inside. I had more strength like this, and even more power once I planted one foot into the mattress near his hands. I held him still and drilled into him, each time better than the last until he was screaming into his makeshift gag. I pushed down between his shoulder blades until his arms collapsed and he was lying on his chest, and I fucked until the heat and friction brought my crisis and I spilled into him, just as I had promised.

I sent him away, afterwards, revulsion at our act taking over my senses even as my foul body still tingled with pleasurable sensation. The last look he gave me that night was just as piercing in my dream as it had been in reality.

The cruel god sped forward through the next day, showing me only glimpses of how I turned away when James sought my eye, hurrying me on to the attack. It was every bit as strange to watch this second time, the huge whale watching us from below the surface, and then ramming us with its monstrous head, right into the side of the ship, until she went down. We had only three working boats, and I sat in one of them, safely away from the Essex, watching helpless as she went down. All eyes scanned the horizon, searching for the vengeful whale and for other crewmen we might pluck from the sea.

All hands in my boat were facing towards the wreck as we looked for survivors. Two had already been plucked from the grasp of the depths and heaved to safety, when I heard a cry from behind me. "Sir!"

I turned. It was James, who had somehow floated from the disaster past my boat, and was now struggling to swim towards us. I shouted orders and the crew immediately took up their oars to put towards him. As we drew close I reached for him, stretching out my arm as far I could go. I tried to save him. I tried with all my might, but my fingers no more than brushed his before the sea bore him down into the depths. I tried to save him. I did. I tried.

I woke covered in cold sweat, my heart thudding violently in my chest. My panic turned to disgust when I felt the thick wetness within my clothes that the foul dream had provoked.

I washed myself and climbed back into bed, but it was many hours before I slept.

 

In truth, I had little wish to encounter Mr Laufeyson at breakfast. I did not know what to expect of him, after the night before, nor did I know what he expected of me. Perhaps I might have faced him more bravely were I not worn down by my dream and the many hours awake. As it was, I stayed in my room long after I was arisen and dressed. I heard his soft footfalls in the hall outside as he passed my door, and then silence. I yet waited, hoping he might disappear into some room before I went to the kitchen, and indeed, after some little time I heard the quiet strains of the piano. I rose from my anxious seat on the side of my bed and descended.

Halfway through my bread, the music ceased. I found myself tempted to dash out the kitchen door but forced myself into stillness. Most likely, he was not coming here, I told myself. By the time I heard his footsteps, it was too late.

He appeared in the doorway. "Please, don't get up," he said as I began to rise. "I merely came to wish you a good morning."

He seemed strange this morning, almost equally odd as he had the day before but quite different in its manifestation; his movements were slow and languid, and his voice was soft. His face bore the stamp of such tranquility I might almost have thought him to be yet asleep.

"Good morning, sir," I greeted him.

"Is the pot empty?"

I knew it was not, and gave it a heft to gauge its fullness. "I'd say there's a good cup yet in there," I said.

He sat down - next to me, not across, as was his custom - and poured himself a cup.

"I hope you slept well," he said.

"I did, thank you," I answered. If his aim last night was to chase this calm and tender mood which now ruled him, I would hold my tongue and do my duty.

"As did I," he told me. We fell into silence after that, but it was one that, despite all my apprehension, proved easy and companionable. He finished his tea just as I finished my bread. "I find myself drawn to the piano today. If you are interested in joining me in the conservatory, you would be most welcome."

I followed, finding myself strangely taken by his manner, and we resumed our places from Wednesday. I again played up and down the strings, drawing my bow slowly across them and feeling the low resonance deep in my soul. He listened to me for perhaps a minute, picking up my tempo before he raised his hands to the keyboard.

Where our music before had been sprightly and cheerful, today's was hushed, almost dreamlike in its nature. With such a peaceful means of whiling the hours, it is little wonder that I was feeling much more myself by the chime of the bell.

Our lunch was a simple affair, as the women were still working hurriedly to prepare enough to keep us for their days away. Tomorrow would be their last day here, and then we would be alone for six days. I found myself facing the thought with considerably less alarm than I would have believed scant hours before. An idea struck me.

"Sir, might I ask something of you?"

"You may. What is it?"

"I know Jane and Darcy don't come over on those days when the tide is in the depth of night, but even so, they will be walking about near midnight, and again well before dawn, in order to make the crossing. It doesn't do for women to be out alone like that. Now that I am here, what do you say to them staying at home more days, and preparing our food there? They could bring it to the causeway, and I could fetch it and bring it back. We would have fresher food, and they would be safer."

I had heard far too many brutes over the years agreeing with one another that a woman out at night deserved no better than what she got; while I had not heard such talk in Barrow, I had little doubt that such was the belief here as well. It seemed to be the thought the world over. And if Jane and Darcy were already thought to be fallen, they had even less protection than did other women. I knew them both to be good, honest girls, despite Darcy's flirtatious eye, and had little wish to hear of their disgrace.

He smiled, and his eyes shone beatifically. Even his over-long, over-black hair seemed almost angelic. "Of course they might. It is kindly thought."

When our meal was completed, I followed Darcy to the kitchen as she carried away our dishes. Jane was there, hurriedly eating bites of food as she chopped a huge pile of carrots. I told them of what I had asked, and of the master's approval of my scheme.

As I spoke, I found myself wondering if perhaps I should have gotten their thoughts on it first, but they met my words with a pleased smile (from Jane) and a fond embrace (from Darcy).

"I confess, our mother does fret herself terribly over us, and has been urging us to leave our places here," Jane said. "Our uncle walks with us when he can, but he cannot well get up at four o-clock when he must run his shop until six that same night."

"I did not know you were thinking of leaving," I said in alarm.

"Nor were we, beyond our mother's fears. Her health limits our ability to go farther from home in seeking a position," she assured me.

"And the pay here is twice what we could find elsewhere in Barrow," Darcy added. Jane gave her a sharp look and she made a face in reply.

It was a relief to hear; though my position in the household was well above theirs, they were of a background and class much closer to my own, and I found their presence to be a comfort in the midst of such strangeness. It was not until the moment Jane mentioned their mother's wishes that I came to grasp how greatly I relied upon them and the familiarity they offered. I would miss them in the days to come.

"The weather is fine today," Jane said. "Have you explored the island yet?"

"Very little. That was kindly thought, I shall do that." I could recognize a dismissal when I heard it, even when it was couched politely. I was halfway out the door when she softened her words.

"He rarely leaves the house. It would be an unhealthy habit for you to take on," she said.

She was right. I had not seen Mr Laufeyson set a single foot out of doors since my arrival. The only time I even saw him breathe fresh air was when he opened the door to me, that first evening. If my purpose here was, after all, to be a companion, however unorthodox of one, I would have to encourage him to join me. But this first time I was curious to go alone and explore at my own pace. Surely he had seen all there was to see, and would have little interest in anything other than a brisk walk about the edge of the sand.

I left by the kitchen door and turned right, as I had before. I walked more slowly this time, shuffling my feet as I went to move the scrubby groundcover and years of fallen leaves, searching for more fallen gravestones. It was not long before I found one. It was so worn with age that I could make out little more than the fact that words had once been upon it, and at the top, more deeply engraved, was a winged skull, a reminder of the fleetingness of life. Well! I had had reminders enough of that to serve any one man's lifetime. I turned away.

Towards the other wing of the house, at the edge of the plateau upon which it was built, stood a small copse of stunted trees which served to break the wind for a large shed. I hesitated before approaching; I had been told that all unlocked rooms were at my disposal, but he had said nothing about the outbuildings. I decided, however, that as I was also to do needed repairs to the house, I was within my rights to survey the tools at hand.

The hinges screamed horrifically as I opened the door; I examined them to find that the metal was heavily corroded from the salt that hung, ever-present, in the winds off the sea. One less familiar with salt-air might think this had gone untended for decades, but if I had been told that it had been neglected no more than a year, I would have believed them. I suspected that the truth was it had been seen to until the time that the current master inherited the house. They would need to be replaced before the doors fell off and left the contents of the shed vulnerable to the same type of ruin.

I had brought no lantern with me, and though one hung near the door I could find no matches, so I surveyed only those shelves close enough to catch the filtering sun. The shelves were stacked haphazardly, with no clear order to the arrangement. Hammers sat on top of a box of screws, while the screwdrivers were all in a pile on top of a saw, which should have been kept hanging. Over it all was a haze of cobwebs and dust that I was made to rethink my estimate of how long the space had gone unused. The effect of the whole was one of such disarray that it was clear I would need to spend considerable time in tidying before I could consider this to be a useable selection of tools.

When I returned outside, deciding that I would return tomorrow when I had a full day to devote to the task, the sunlight was nigh on blinding. I stood in the doorway and blinked against it until I could see, before turning to close the shed. It closed no more easily than it had opened, and with just as terrible a sound. I looked up at the house to see if I had caused disturbance. I was quite sure I had; the noise was so bad, and I felt the prickle of eyes upon my neck, but I could find no one watching me from within.

The trees were next to receive my attention. I had decided that the crying I heard on the wind must be a set of branches, rubbing together until their wood was polished down so smooth they were like a bow and strings. The leaves were already shed, and I had to shuffle through the piles that crunched beneath my feet. Every branch of every tree received its own inspection from me, and yet no matter how I searched, I could find no spot where the rough bark had worn away.

I still had not seen the western edge of the island, for the cliff dropped off too steeply to see the beach from above. I decided that I would make a circuit of it and see what there was to see. The tide was at its highest, so I had no fear of finding myself trapped.

There was, I discovered, only one easy way down from the peak upon which the house was found. I circled the southern wing this time, as I had not yet seen that side of the building. There were no tombstones this way, though I found an overgrown garden that must once have been quite filled with charm. The beds had been laid out carefully in concentric circles, each with a split at each of the cardinal points to allow passage between them. The plants that yet remained here - rhubarb and sorrel, mainly, with a small patch of determined asparagus, tall and woody with dried seed pods perched on its spidery flower heads - tumbled beyond their ephemeral borders. Overall it seemed to me a stark reminder of Nature’s unending desire to triumph over reason and order.

The beach would be better, I told myself as I hurried down the stairs. These, at least, were in good order, the creeping vines and squat bare trees trimmed well back from the path. At the bottom of the stairs, I turned away from the causeway, where every footprint led, and went to my left. The ribbon of sand was perhaps six feet wide now, though I knew it to be perhaps twenty when the tide was low. I wondered suddenly if I might find tools for clamming. These long shallow beaches would be perfect beds, and I had already seen how heavily populated the sands of the causeway were. Though it was far from a favorite pursuit, it would do me good to work my arms and be out-of-doors.

Barrow-in-Furness, seen from the northern point of the island (for once I reached it, I saw that the island was in the shape of a large triangle, with the causeway facing the longest side), appeared a hotbed of activity. Sickly black smoke churned into the sky from a hundred fires, and at the edge of town nearest the sea I could see the beginning of the steelworks. The chimneys had already been built, eight fat red-brick things thrusting obscenely into the sky.

Turning to follow the northwestern edge of the island gave me a jolt of shock and familiarity. This was the first time since my return to England that I had faced the unbroken sea. It stretched out, vast and imperious. The waves were gray as slate and capped with an angry foam. One might reasonably expect it to give me either a shudder of distaste, after my last months upon it, or a pang of longing for all that had been before, but I found myself strangely neutral. The sea simply _was_. Before, I had gazed upon it with such eagerness: for upon it could be found manhood, power, and wealth for those who sought, and I had been so driven to prove myself. Ah, yes, I had been such a strong and brave man once, foolhardy in my blind lust for glory. If only I had known what manner of thing it was that I would prove myself to be! I would have taken the next train to London and never set eyes on anything broader than the Thames again.

These were the thoughts that filled my mind as I continued following the edge of the sea. A few broken shells were scattered across the beach, beige and pink and white. Nothing truly of interest occurred, and when I arrived again at the steps up, I ascended gladly. I had not worn my overcoat, and the wind had grown harsh. I entered through the front door and from above heard the clacking of billiard balls. I went up to find the master playing idly, his strikes slow and sure as he worked his way down a tidy line.

“Ah! Mister Odinson. I trust you had a pleasant afternoon?”

“Very. I walked the edge of the island, and I discovered the tool shed.” Though he displayed more energy than he had that morning, his movements were still imbued with that eerie tranquility I had so noted upon him at lunch. Whatever it was, I saw no good coming of my telling him of the garden, or my overly strong reaction to the tombstones.

“That shed,” he said, shaking his head. “It has gone unnoted for many years now. I confess myself surprised you could get inside, for all the spiders that must have claimed it as their domain.”

“There were many, indeed,” I agreed. “I would like to take a day to work in it and bring it to order, before the time comes when I find myself in need of its contents.”

“Of course. Your time is as you like,” he told me.

I smiled. “In that case, might I challenge you to a game?” I asked, taking up a cue.

I felt a strange compulsion to go look out the window which I thought nothing but the results of my earlier outdoor survey could explain. The moon was high, and only barely beginning to wane, and it shone so brilliantly upon the sea that I could almost make out each individual wave as it approached our shore. I looked closer, hoping that by surveying the gardens from a higher vantage point, it would be easier for me to best make out my approach in regaining the control that had been lost. I devoted perhaps half an hour to this pursuit, thinking not only of what was already there and in need of tending, but what new things I might plant, come spring. I had never been one for gardening when I was younger, but I had pulled and weeded just as my mother had ordered me, and now I was curious to discover that I longed for the feel of good honest earth once again beneath my fingers.

At last I had a plan thoroughly designed in my head, ready to be carefully recorded when I found myself in possession of a bit of paper. The mental exercise had done me good; the thought of setting that tumult back into order had brought my mind to heel from its earlier disturbance. I had been perturbed by the events of the previous evening, and I had allowed that to unduly influence my moods today. I would not make such a mistake again.

My attention turned next to the trees, as they danced and waved in the night breezes. I fixed my attention firmly upon them as I waited for the air currents to stir them into their strange wailing, that I might spy which branches were the culprits, and go out first thing to cut them down. I stared and stared, fully alert despite the late hour, determined that I would retire until I had found out the cause of the noise.

Indeed, I was so intent upon this that my attention was only barely caught by motion out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head to find a figure directly below my window, creeping along the side of the house! A burglar, trapped here on the island with us, making his way towards the kitchen door. I was just about to take up my fire poker and slip downstairs when he turned his face up to my window.

Until that moment, I had not known that blood could freeze within one's veins. I had not known that it was possible for the body to shake so violently without suffering a fit. I had not known that reason could be dashed in an instant like a raft upon the rocks. For the figure beneath my window was no _man_ at all.

 _James_ stood there watching me. His face was silver in the moonlight, and the sea water dripped from his hair as he met my eyes and stretched out his hand in supplication. I was paralyzed, pinned to the spot, my body a butterfly in a careless boy's collecting album. We stared at each other, and I watched as his face began to bloat and stretch in a most revolting fashion. This was followed directly by a mottling of the skin, and then - I yet shudder to recall it! - I watched as he came apart entirely, just as his body must have done beneath the waves. Between the natural forces of decomposition and the actions of hungry fish and sharp rocks in the deepest sea, he would not have remained intact for long. His eyes burned into mine from deep inside the hollow bone. I saw a trail of jelly melt down his skull as he threw back his head and laughed. That thin line of slime running down the cheek which I had once... I gave a hoarse cry and fell to the floor senseless.

I was woken from my stupor by the sound of my name and gentle hands upon me. I opened my eyes to find the master kneeling beside me, his candle glowing weakly from my washstand. He smiled to see me wake. “I heard a noise,” he said. “Were you sleepwalking? Whatever were you doing out of bed?”

I remembered at once the reason for my collapse, and I rose to my knees to peer out the window, but the apparition was gone. It had to have been a dream; my mother had told me ghost-tales and such like when I was a boy, to frighten me into obedience, but when I grew older my father beat all such foolish notions out of me. I must have arisen while dreaming, and dreamt the… the _thing_ I had seen.

“I was sleepwalking,” I told him, and said no more.

“You must be careful. It is not healthy to sleep so exposed like this.”

I bowed my head at his gentle reprimand. He urged me to my feet, wrapping a solicitous arm about my waist the moment I stood, and helped me back to my bed. We sat down, side by side, on the edge of the mattress. His arm stayed where it was. The warmth of his body next to mine felt delicious. I could feel every inch of him, where his leg and hip pressed against my own, his chest against my side and the long arm about my middle. Every finger. I looked down at them where they curled around me, long and sensitive.

“I know you must find me queer, but believe me when I say I have never had a friend like you before, and I do want to make you happy. Promise me you won’t go from here,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I promise.”

He kissed my shoulder. I could feel the heat of his lips through my thin shirt. He rose and urged me to lie down, which I did. I lay still as the blankets were pulled over me and tucked in snugly all around my body. I stopped breathing as he bent over me, I could feel my pulse thudding… he kissed my forehead. This time I felt not only the heat of his lips but their wetness, and they moved as though he were speaking silently.

“You are far too chilled. You must stay in bed until morning, and regain your warmth. You must have been up a long time,” he said.

I nodded. “I will,” I told him.

I fell asleep still cold everywhere he had not touched.


	4. A Return to the Cellar

I woke after dawn the next morning. My curtains were still open, and I at once approached my window to look out. My dream-vision had been wrought by an excess of emotion, and the best way to exorcise it was with reason and firmness. The sea was calm this morning, and even the overgrown garden which had so roused me the day before I could now gaze upon with satisfaction, happy in the knowledge of my plan for its restoration. Even the knowledge of the tombstones, scattered about the ground to my right, did not discomfit me today. What I needed was reason and order and exercise.

“Do you like clams, sir?” I asked the moment Mr Laufeyson entered the dining room. He looked tired, and I felt a pang of guilt at having bothered him the night before, but he smiled. “I do, indeed. Are they bringing us clams today?” he asked.

“They are not. I shall get them myself,” I declared. “There must be a shovel and a bucket in the shed; I shall clean in there until the tide begins to ebb, and then I will go gather clams until it is time to collect our bread. They left us a vegetable soup, and it will be much tastier for having some clams boiled into it before we eat.”

“I will enjoy that,” he said.

The shed proved to be an even greater task than I had first guessed. I took some matches out with me and lit the lantern and set to work, but in the span of three hours I had not cleaned enough to move outside of the half-ring of light that fell from the open door. I had, however, found a saw barely touched by rust, and I was very glad of it, for I had reasserted to myself my determination that the tree branches must be cut. I had also found a shovel, heavily rusted but still serviceable, and a pail. These I left out of doors as I ate a fast and solitary lunch.

It made most sense that I do my hunting on the side of the island facing the mainland, that I might collect until I saw the women approaching. I was no expert, but I was confident that I could find enough to add savor to our meal, if not much of the way of volume. I also knew that I must move from place to place, and not use up any of the beds; I would hunt the other sides of the island on days when I was not keeping watch.

The digging proved to be a good healthy exercise; my arms burned with the shovelling, but the next time I did this, it would be better, and then better still. I would circle the island every day, I decided, and work my arms somehow. I doubted either of us greatly wished to eat clams every day, but there was brush to clear, and repairs to do, and all of these would build me back up. I had been told that my time was my own; well then, I would spend it on making myself back into the man I once was. Strong and hale. Reasonable. Unafraid.

By the time I saw Jane and Darcy beginning to approach, I had the pail perhaps a third full. It was a respectable amount, certainly enough for two to eat well. I set it aside and strode out to meet them. They were dressed more nicely than I had seen them before. These must be their good dresses, I realized, and wondered what might be their reason for wearing them. I met them near the middle, closer to their side.

“Good day,” I said, and raised my hat to them.

“Good day,” they answered, bobbing.

I was feeling particularly conscious of my words after my error the last time we had met here. “You are both looking very well today,” I offered.

“Jane said we should wear our best,” Darcy blurted out.

“Sssh!” Jane turned to me. “We are calling on our uncle on our way home, and thought to display his wares.”

“Ah. Of course,” I said. It made sense that he would prefer they not wear their old workaday garments about his shop, not when they had these nicer ones. Darcy kept looking at me with a determined glance, and then looking more quickly at her sister.

“Are you well? Perhaps you have something in your eye,” I asked. I reached for my handkerchief; I am, I must admit, a sure hand at removing sand from the eyes without damage.

“No, I am well, thank you,” she said hastily.

“We really must be going,” Jane said. “Please accept our thanks once again. This arrangement has set our mother’s mind greatly at rest.”

“It is all a matter of his generosity,” I answered.

“Yes. Well,” she said, taking a step back. “Good day.”

“Good day,” I wished them again, and Darcy echoed me before they turned away.

The sun was already half-hidden behind the house, and the high clouds glowed a soft orange. I went in with the bread and the clams, cringing at the sound of the hinges. I would see to those the following morning, if I could find some oil.

The house was silent when I entered, and I found myself wondering where he was, what he was doing. He would find me soon enough when he grew hungry, I decided, and I set to work in the kitchen. I cleaned the clams of their sand and put the soup on to heat before adding them to cook.

The fire was well-contained, so I felt no qualms about leaving it briefly untended while I went to the library to find myself a book. That was where I found him, sitting in his usual chair, so enrapt he did not hear me enter. I paused in the doorway, wondering whether it were better to greet him, or to leave him uninterrupted, before deciding upon the latter. I walked quietly to the shelves behind him where I hoped I might be less bothersome. I was so close I could smell his hair. It made me think of burning frankincense and warm soft woods and the trace of beeswax left on the hands after one has carried a candle.

I drew my attention back to the matter at hand, skimming the titles of the books.

"Do you enjoy novels, Mr Odinson?" he asked.

His voice startled me and I jumped, half laughing at myself. "I am not a great novel reader, no."

"I ask because that is where you are standing. Come." He rose from his seat and left his book resting open to hold his place. He led me around to a section of shelves in the farthest section of the library and skimmed intently. "Ah, yes. I believe you will enjoy this. It is Faraday's lectures on the parts of a candle and the mechanism of combustion."

"It is enjoyable, sir?" I asked, taking it from his outstretched hand.

He tilted his head slightly as he looked over my face. We both stayed silent as he reached up to stroke my hair. His touch was so tender, so gentle, it was all I could do not to let my eyes fall shut at the sensation.

"I think there is something burning within you, and the sooner you come to recognize its nature, the happier you will be," he murmured.

I had so little idea what he might have meant by his words that I found myself unable to give an answer beyond thanking him for the advice.

Alone in the kitchen, I gave the soup a stir with the heavy wooden spoon that was kept hanging on the side of the chimney. Its bowl was chipped and splintered from long use, but the very heft of the thing kept it intact. The handle was the opposite; use had worn it into a polished smoothness that was surely not half so perfect when it was new-made.

The light was failing outside, and I set a candle next to me on the table as I began to read, serving at once as illumination and illustration of the text. I was not much of one for scientific texts, as a rule; I enjoyed reading history, more often, but I was quickly taken in by the work before me. His lyrical descriptions of flames had been phrased so beautifully that they resonated with poetry.

When he came to inquire after our dinner, his eyes glittered oddly, but he spoke easily and with great cheer. "Do you think it is ready to be eaten? I am most eager to taste what you have made," he asked.

I rose and gave the soup another stir, lifting out one of the clams to check. It looked perfect, and I said as much. "But I can scarcely take the credit for making it," I said. "This is almost entirely Darcy's work."

And quite delicious it was, we agreed as we ate. He chose the wine for us (a white wine, a rarity for him, but it suited the stew nicely) and poured it with a very free hand, and we drank so heartily that a second bottle was emptied before we were finished dining. "You must give me a game of billiards," he said as we rose.

The port flowed just as easily as had the wine, and it was stronger, so that I found my head going light. I did not notice the change in the air until it had happened, but once I realized it, I could not imagine anything being more clear. His earlier exuberance had given way to a sort of twitching agitation. He struck me suddenly as a man who was _waiting_ for something. When we finished the game, I went to bed and fell asleep before the wind could affect me.

The next morning passed in the same way, as did much of the afternoon. The women brought not only bread, this time, but a roast and boiled carrots. These were in a heavy iron pot that I nestled in the glowing coals to keep hot until it was time for our dinner. I was also pleased to receive the first of the items I had purchased from their uncle. Jane blushed a little as they gave me my new set of drawers and undershirt. I may have blushed as I took them, as well, but I was mainly filled with gladness that I would no longer be forced to wash my underclothes every day in order to have them clean for the next.

I did not see the master at all until dinner that day. He trembled with the same anticipation I had seen before. "I require your services tonight," he told me. He had brought water rather than wine to the table, and between that and his absolute quivering, his words came as no surprise.

I nodded my acceptance and ate my dinner. Every time I looked up from my plate, his eyes were on me, burning into me, his gaze penetrating deep inside me.

As he had the time before, he ate little of his dinner. I began to rise as he took his leave, but he pressed me with a firm hand back into my chair and stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest and holding my body close to his. "You cannot begin to understand how I depend on you already," he said. His breath was hot against my ear and my treacherous body betrayed me, leaning back into his embrace and sighing.

I found him in the cellar room much as he had been before. Tonight's dressing gown was a rich dark red, shot through with silver, where the other had been blue with rich black embroidery, but all of import - his heightened mood and glowing skin, and my own turbulent emotions - were the same.

"Was the amount I performed our last time as you wished?" I asked. The words felt large and awkward upon my tongue. I had to force them out.

"Very much so. Thank you."

Again the careful folding of the gown, again the careful placing upon the shelf. Again, standing silently until I told him where to go.

"Facing the post. Feet apart. Hold on to the ring at the top and don't let go," I told him.

I collected the same implements that I had used before; I wished to gain a little more - not comfort, _familiarity_ \- with the process before I began to test out the other tools offered to me. He watched me over his shoulder with shining eyes, and though his hands shook, I could not help being struck by the almost supernatural level of calmness upon his face. I walked about him before I began. The traces of my earlier attentions yet showed, the fading lines across his buttocks like a drunkard's street map. His prick - for I looked, this time, it was ridiculous to avoid it - was flushed and erect. It was quite long, a full nine inches were I to guess, and thick enough for any man to be proud. And yet this was how he chose to take his pleasure. I watched until a drop of something clear and shining beaded out of it and slid down the post, leaving a gleaming trail in its wake.

"Take one step back," I ordered. He did as he was told, and it left his prick bobbing and twitching in the air, as I wanted it. That thick puddle of spend last time had unnerved me, and I would not let it happen again if I could help it.

I relaxed into my task far more easily that I liked to acknowledge. Part of it, I knew, was the simple fact that I was more accustomed this position; when I had given floggings on the ship, the crewman was bound to a mast, and this post was little different, though it was his obedience alone that kept him in place. And yet part of it - if I am to tell the truth here, as I have sworn to do - was that I came to feel myself taking pleasure in it. One listening to his cries from outside the door would have been at a loss to tell whether they were from pain or from something altogether different.

His skin grew pink, then red. The air took on the scent of salt and leather. I continued on, curious to learn whether the flogger could raise bruises on its own. When I was nearly ready to turn again to the crop I saw the mottling begin to appear. It was different this time, a shallow pattern all across his buttocks rather than the lurid stripes which had crossed him before, but I was satisfied.

"Loki, you are done," I told him. I found that I took an odd pleasure in calling him by his Christian name in the midst of this dissipation, and I reminded myself to use it more often in future sessions.

"Thank you," he said. Lowering his tired arms made him give a sigh of relief, as though the ache in his shoulders were his only pain.

I went to hang the flogger and crop but he stopped me. "I will take care of those, if you wish to retire above," he offered.

I handed them to him. I stopped just short of thanking him; above, I would thank the master, but below, Loki would receive none.

 

I was met again with quietness and tranquility the next day. He had made the tea before I got to the kitchen, and he urged me to take my seat while he poured. Even his movements serving the tea were slow, I noticed, and his hand stayed on my shoulder with a touch so soft I could have imagined it. It stayed there as I drank. I had not the faintest notion how to respond, so I simply cut my bread and ate. He began to pet my hair as I chewed, sometimes tightening his fingers between the locks in a possessive gesture. I glanced up at him but said nothing. Halfway through my meal he gave a small nod of satisfaction and sat down to eat.

I spent yet more time in the shed that day; I found the work satisfying, watching the chaotic filth give way before my efforts. Each time I left it, it was more clean and organized than when I began. I finally found a bottle of oil, and set about tending to every squeaking hinge in the house, inside and out. Not a single door or window went without my attention but those of the master's room above and the cellar door below.

The women brought us pies that day, as well as more clothes for me. I was glad to receive another pair of underclothes and a pair of socks. "Our aunt thinks she'll be done with your underthings tomorrow; the pieces are all cut, and there's little enough sewing left to do. Then it's just the knitting, and she is a fast hand at that, and our mother helps her as well," Darcy told me.

After lunch I took my pass about the island. It was growing dark by the time I returned to the house. I realized with a start how late I had woken that morning. I had spent my whole life accustomed to living according to another's schedule; that of my parents, then the schoolmaster, then the ship's captain. Even when we were dying in the small whaleboat, our days were determined by the sun and the best hours to try to catch fish. Now, meeting the women was my sole point of regularity, and even that changed with the tide.

I was not yet hungry, nor did I have any clue what time dinner ought to be. Apparently the master did not think it was that moment, for I found him reading in the sitting room, sipping a glass of sherry.

"Might I join you?" I asked.

"Please do."

I poured myself a glass and took the chair nearest the fire. After the biting chill of the wind, the gentle waves of heat that emanated from it were very welcome, and between that and the sherry it was not long at all before I had warmed up so much that I had to remove my coat. He was already without his, and sitting there together without our coats, enjoying a warm fire and good sherry and (I assumed, on his part) interesting books, the events of the past night seemed to fade away. We could have been two brothers, sitting at home together on an autumn evening.

I fell into something of a reverie. What would my life have been, I mused, were I his brother rather than his servant (for servant I clearly was, though he denied the word)? Did wealthy boys share beds, as poor ones did? Would we have slept together, innocent, each finding comfort against the dark by clinging to the other one with tender limbs? Would there have been loving childish caresses, the elder brother kissing away the tears of the younger when he wept from his nightmares? Oh! How I burned at the thought of such sweetness!

The pace of our days became set by his moods. It rapidly fell into a pattern: one day he would be seized with that queer agitation that signalled an evening in the cellar, after which he would spend a day languid and affectionate. The day following he would be jovial, offering me games of billiards or cards, and we would drink and smoke and laugh together, though at times his other moods would take momentary hold of him.

It was on the night before our last day alone on the island that it happened. He had asked during dinner that I put him in the stocks; I had not yet used those, instead alternating between table and post based on nothing more than my mood as it was the moment I walked into the cellar room. His voice had been chillingly matter-of-fact when he made his request. He might have asked for me to pass the salt-cellar with no more hesitation.

As he removed his dressing gown he asked me if I needed any explanation as to the mechanism of the stocks. It took only a quick look to tell me that I did not; both locking bars were hinged on one end, and could simply be swung into place and attached by wooden pins. I shook my head _no_ to answer his question, and he calmly took his place, standing proudly upright as I brought the ankle bar around and locked it.

There was no pride in his posture once he was bent over the waist bar, legs trapped, folded over and ready to be locked in. It had clearly been designed for use on men far shorter than he; in order to fit himself into it, his hips were forced out and up, putting him on utterly obscene display. I lowered the bar and fitted the pin to it as he held tremblingly still. That night was the harshest I had ever been with him and he loved it, panting and gasping and crying out with each rough stroke. The flail I had chosen was made of horsehair, delicate in appearance but capable of giving an excellent strike to the skin; the bulk of it, where the hair clumped together and moved as one, gave a solid thump, while the tips of the hairs bit almost viciously. It had a well-shaped handle, made of wood and designed to fit perfectly into the hand, almost like an _8_ that had been cut away at one end.

His back shone with sweat as I worked, making him appear gilded in the orange glow of the lamplight. As I watched, a single bead gathered near his left shoulder, ran down the delicate shoulder blade, and continued down the hollow of his spine to settle in the deepest arch of his back, barely an inch from where my flail came down. The sight and sounds in that room that night would have tried a saint, and I was painfully far from them.

There was no denying my own revolting arousal; my prick was caught almost painfully in the leg of my trousers as it struggled to rise but was pinned, thick and aching. As I continued, listening to the strokes landing upon his skin, listening to his moans, I felt something hot drip from it and run down my leg. My drawers clung wetly to my skin and I hated him, I hated him for showing me this about myself and I hated that I had no choice but to stand here and acknowledge the truth of what I was. His hole twitched, pink and tight, before me. I ceased my attentions upon his skin to take up the jar of ointment. It smelled of wood and cinnamon and my prick throbbed at the scent. The next thing he knew was my finger, cold and coated with the fragrant slick. He moaned again as I spread it over him, jutting his hips back towards me.

"You like that, Loki? You want it?" I asked him.

He nodded frantically.

"Tell me," I ordered.

"Please, please. I want it, I need it-" He broke off as I pressed into him, not my finger, but the smooth wooden handle of the flail. I watched it slide in as he arched his back and keened. I meant not to look, but I could not help myself, and the tight of that tiny orifice, stretched white and wide about the smooth tool, made something twist and tighten, deep inside my core. Once it was fully in, his ring clamped around the very end of the wooden piece so that all that still showed was the heavy tail, I left it in place. It was black, almost as black as his hair in this low light; it looked like it belonged there. It shook and tossed with his rough breathing.

"There. You call yourself a gentleman. Now you look like the mindless beast you have shown yourself to be," I told him, circling the stocks to face him. I found him given to delirium, eyes closed in bliss and mouth opened wide in ragged gasps. "So. You enjoy even this. I have been called filth for the things I was forced to do, and you do this from desire," I hissed.

He leaned his head against my hip and I took a step back, opening my trousers. The terrible aching in my prick eased as it sprang free. "Let us see how deep runs your depravity," I told him, and pulling his jaw farther open, I thrust into his mouth.

He moaned, tightened his lips about me, and _sucked_ , and I became a slave to my lusts. I took his head in my hands to stop the little motion he could make, and thrust into him brutally. I could hear him choking slightly as I hit the back of his throat, but I continued on, drunk on the feel of wet slick heat as my prick was engulfed.

I fucked his vile mouth until all too quickly I was spilling. I let the first four jets shoot down his throat before I pulled away to cover his face in my spend. He closed his eyes and took it like a sacrament. When it was over I took a moment to catch my breath before tucking my wet prick away and buttoning up my trousers. I knelt and freed his ankles before opening the upper lock and raising the frame, freeing his head and hands.

He straightened and turned to face me. The flail was still within him, the tassels swaying almost dizzyingly with his movements. He took his prick in his hand and met my eye with the most maddening smile I could have dreamt.

"I'll see to this myself?" he asked. His voice was mocking, and his laughter followed me up the stairs.

Not until after I was in my bed did I hear him tread on the creaking floorboard outside my room, and then all was silence.

 

In the morning, I meant to slip downstairs alone, but he left his room moments after I left my own, and I resolved to powder the tattle-tale board. "Good morning," I said cautiously.

I need not have feared. The languid peace that had taken him after our earlier visits to the cellar was all the stronger today. "Good morning," he told me.

I put the kettle on as he got out our food, and we ate together in quietness.

"Will you play your cello for me?" he asked when I was finished clearing our plates.

" _Your_ cello, but of course, if you desire it. I must warn you, though, I have made little progress."

"However little, it will please me to hear you play. Yes, I desire it."

I followed him to the conservatory. I stayed several steps below on the stairs, watching for any signs of harm from the night before, but his gait was as smooth and even as any fine lady might wish for herself. I took the stool by the cello and raised the bow. I expected him to take the piano bench to listen, but he came to stand behind me. He petted and caressed me the whole time I played, fingers in my hair, running down the side of my throat where I could feel my pulse throbbing against him, even daring so much as to dip down inside my collar. I played on and on, dreading the conversation that would have to follow the end of the music.

"You thought I would feel degraded last night," he said when I finally lowered my bow.

"I meant no-" I began, but he cut me off.

"No, you did. I am not angry with you, if that is what you fear. I remember when I felt as you do now. But I learned."

"Learned to enjoy that?"

"That was part of it, yes," he answered levelly. "But more when I learned that there was no shame in enjoying it."

His fingers were still down my collar, the touch one of the most intimate I had ever known. He stepped closer to whisper into my ear, and it brought his body flush against my own. His prick was hard against my back.

"Remember what you told me of your first day at sea? How you climbed to the top of the mast and looked to the west and saw nothing but endless water, and how you had never felt so free? I understood you as few men ever will. One day you will beg me to fuck you, Thor, and you will love it," he breathed.


	5. Revelations

As the winter settled in and Christmas approached, I found myself venturing out of doors far less often. The fog, as much as the cold, kept me away from my daily walk about the island. I would sit and watch the changing clouds over the water; they were so different from what I had known when I was a sailor, or even when I lived on the south coast of England rather than the west. I saw no more apparitions outside, and any doubts I may have held that it had been a mere dream faded away with each evening that went by without a sighting.

I found myself spending more and more time with him; we would sit and read by the fire, or play music together (he was a skilled enough pianist to accompany me as I learned my scales, and then into the simplest of tunes), or play games. I had found a croquet set in the garden shed, and though the wickets were rusted through, the mallets and balls were well protected by their heavy varnish. I brought them inside and we played in the library, using the chair legs as wickets.

One unexpected, and welcome change, was in the wind. I had expected its lonely, plaintive sounds to grow ever worse as winter yet in, but it did not. It blew about the house as strongly as ever, sending piles of dull brown leaves into wild tarantellas across the lawn, and yet it must have started coming from a different direction, for I rarely even noticed that strange weeping sound that had kept me awake my first weeks here.

Even our nights in the cellars had begun to take on an ease I would never have believed on that first night when I learned of my duties. I still did not understand his desires or his need for that which he asked, but each time we descended I found it came more naturally. I became a scholar of flagellation; I came to know intimately the sound each of one of his implements, both in the air and against the skin. I learned his cries like another language, and in time, when he opened his mouth for me, I began to fill it without anger.

I still remember how it was, the first time I can honestly say I acted from desire rather than fury at having the lust roused in me. I had tied his wrists to the post and paddled him with a wooden paddle covered in holes. He had taken it with such _sweetness_ that night, meeting each stroke with a tender sigh, and when I finished and freed his hands, he sank to his knees and opened my breeches with a touch so affectionate that I grew half-dizzy.

I stood there, watching him swallow my prick straight down, lips stroking along the shaft with each bob of his head, tongue caressing the sensitive head each time he drew back, and all the time, his eyes on mine. Other times he had offered me a mocking gaze, or a challenging one, or even one that was frantic with his own desperate need. This was the first time I had seen it so soft, and it conquered something within me that had withstood all sturdier attempts.

"Yourself as well," I told him, cradling his head in my hand. "I want to feel it."

And feel it I did; he reached down for his own, bringing himself in long even pulls that matched the motions of his mouth. Glorious as those were, they were nothing compared to the moment his movements began to stutter with his closeness. In the span of a single second, the sensations around my prick would change from wet sloppy heat to a rush of cold air as he gasped before tightening again and sucking harder than before. My very thickness drowned his moans as he spilled, one hand breaking the thick white jets of spend from messing my trousers.

His pleasure spurred my own. The sight of his eyes clenched shut as he rode wave after wave, the small wrinkle between his brows that I had never seen before, his lips stretched wide and welcoming so that I felt rather than saw his smile... all of this brought about a crisis of such sweet intensity that I staggered beneath it, putting one hand on his shoulder for balance. His hand came to my hip, then, offering further support as I shook and groaned.

It was the first time he had seen to me afterwards. The first time I had let him. When I was finished he slipped his lips free and tucking my softening prick back inside my clothing, folding the heavy fabric of my drawers and trousers back into place.

"I can't well do the rest of that. My other hand is somewhat messy," he said, smiling up at me.

My hand was still on his head, and I gave it a light squeeze before buttoning myself up. He rose to his feet and slipped on his dressing gown, and we went upstairs together.

 

I gained back enough of my lost weight that I had to purchase an entirely new wardrobe. He again sent me into town laden with coins, and again I traded my old clothes in as I gained new ones, and again he told me to keep the money that remained. I took a book with me this time, and made no attempt at conversation with the woman tending the public house. She remembered me, and though there was little welcome from her, she sold me a hot pie and a cup of tea and took my money. I had ceased to wonder why the people of Barrow viewed the house and the master the way they did; these small towns with their provincial people are hotbeds of ignorance and gossip, and I knew very well that I was fortunate in finding myself such a generous master.

That Christmas was the happiest one I had known in my life up to that date. It was in the middle of the period in which I met Jane and Darcy on the causeway, and they had spent days before their withdrawal at chopping and dicing and endless lectures about how each part of the dinner was to be prepared, setting pots filled with food out in the snow to stay good. On Christmas Eve, they brought the goose, and on Christmas morning, I put it on to roast. That day, they brought fresh bread, gravy, and the plum pudding - those things they least trusted to me - and I sent them on their way with an extra pound in each of their pockets and two bottles of very good wine from his stores, which he had personally selected for them.

Our dinner was lavish, the table almost ridiculously filled with food for two people alone. Not only was the pudding filled with fruit, but the master had gaily announced that he intended to put his punchmaking skills on display, and we found ourselves with a silver bowl filled with a truly impressive blend of juice and wine and rum, the top floating with preserved cherries and dried figs simmered into bursting fatness.

He gave me a purse heavy with coins, which I later discovered to hold twenty pounds. I had taken up whittling when the weather had begun to draw in, and I gave him a model of one of the giant stones heads I had seen once, deep in the South Seas. We drank the punch until we were feeling quite silly, at which time he challenged me to a game of billiards. I accepted, naturally, and we withdrew above. In our present condition, neither of us were able to play better than our very worst games, and, as we could neither of us give good sport, he chose instead to amuse me with the most flagrant cheats I had ever witnessed.

He was just lining up to take a shot when he froze, eyes wide. "Do you hear that?" he whispered as he turned towards the door.

"Hear what?" I asked quietly, turning to follow his gaze.

He made his move a second too soon, grabbing one of my balls off the table - one perfectly in place for me to make a point out of something other than chance - and tucking it into his pocket.

"No, but I saw _that_ ," I told him, laughing.

"You saw nothing," he answered, his own face so studiously bland that had I not known him quite so well I would never have seen the amusement that danced in his eyes.

"Give me that," I said, lunging for him.

"Give you what?" he asked, his face the very picture of innocence as he backed away from me.

"That," I repeated as I lunged again. He tried to skip away - and he would have done, for he was usually of nimble foot - but for the punch we had drunk. His toes caught the edge of the carpet and he tripped backwards and found himself leaning back against the wall. I planted my hands on either side of his shoulders, boxing him in.

He twisted, trying to duck beneath my arm, but I caught him and we both went sprawling into a tangled heap of limbs. The ball rolled out of his pocket, ignored. His eyes shone, and his lips were parted expectantly. His breath still smelled like wine and cherries despite the cigars we had smoked. It was heavy and hot on my face and I felt all at once as though all the air had left the room.

"I had best go to bed," I said.

His smile faltered slightly before he rallied and extricated himself from the mess we had made of ourselves. "Yes, of course," he agreed.

He slipped his arm around my waist as we walked down the unlit hall to our bedrooms. We stopped together at my door. "Goodnight, Thor. Happy Christmas," he said. He slipped the candle into my hand and disappeared into the darkness.

It was the second time he had called me by my Christian name. It was the punch, nothing more, that made him forget himself, though indeed, he was well within his rights to call me _Thor._ I was a trifle clumsy as I undressed for bed, nearly falling over as my foot caught in the leg of my trousers. At least I had had the sense to leave the candlestick on the small table that served me for a nightstand and made sure I was well away from it, standing in the long shadows to strip down to my underclothes.

My thoughts drifted back over the day as I settled into sleep. I had had such fun with him, the morning spent playing carols (beautifully, on his part, and quite passably, on mine, for I had devoted hours upon hours since the coming of the cold), the afternoon spent in seeing to a meal that I took great pride in, the evening spent sharing it with a man who had somehow, strangely, become the closest friend I had ever known. Even without the intimacies of the cellar, I found myself taking the most delightful pleasure in his company, as though the mere fact of his presence could coat the very room in gilt.

Yes, it was proving to be a very happy life here. Jane and Darcy were right, that he was a good master; both a good master and a good friend, and they were becoming good friends as well, though they had less time to spend in conversation with me. I was dressed comfortably in clothes and shoes that fit me well and kept me warm, and I had fully persuaded myself that the sighting of James was no more than a dream. Indeed, I did not see him again for months. Not until the night I fucked Loki.

 

The truth of it was that his moods affected me far more than I liked to acknowledge. Those soft and quiet days of his - the _afterdays_ , as I began to call them to myself, as opposed to _the days_ , both of which stood in contrast to what were simply days - I found in his queer, controlling moods a sort of affection, a thing of which I had gone too long without. Indeed, in retrospect I find myself with no doubt at all of his growing feelings for me. At the time, I told myself that I must simply bear it and wait for it to be gone, as it nearly always was by the following day. It would put me terribly ill at ease, feeling the slide of his fingers down beneath my collar or up my cuffs, fingertips taking in the feel of my pulse as it raced and burned at the words of passionate devotion he would whisper into my ear.

And then came the day when his mood did not ebb, when it burned just as bright even as the agitation took him so that he was all at once languid and taken by constant movement, dreaming and demanding. After our evening meal, he came to stand before me as I slid my chair back from the table, placing one foot between my own and bending down over me, his hand over my heart.

“Tonight, Thor. You feel it too, do you not? I know how you long for it, my love. Why do you torture us both with your delays? Oh, how I yearn to know the sensation of you within me, to be as joined as two souls can be in life. Just imagine how it will feel.” These last words were no more than moaned softly as he pressed his cheek to my own. His words were hot against my ear, and then hotter still, and I went rigid at the feel of his tongue as it caressed the lobe.

There was a butterfly-light kiss brushed against my hair and he was gone, leaving me in a state of complete discomposure. He had been right when he said I longed for it; arousal was already stirring my heart and my prick. I knew, moreover, that there should be no different in the guilt I felt between what we had already done and what it was he now asked me to do. Both were violations of the natural order of the very worst sort. And yet - the things we had done did not leave me with the sense of foulness I had expected. Not since the first time I had ordered him to bring himself as well.

When I went up to my room to wash my face after dinner I found a dressing gown on my bed. Pinned to it was a slip of paper. _I wondered if you might find this more comfortable. My apologies for not providing it sooner,_ it read. It was signed with a large flourishing double L, which I had learned he preferred to the use of his full name when possible. I lifted the gown. It was surprisingly heavy, being made of a thick red silk embroidered all over in black and gold with twisting vines and grotesque animals, and lined with another layer of silk beneath. I had felt silk only twice in my life before, and had never dreamt I might own something made of it. The thought of wearing such a thing… it was a surreal indulgence. I had my coat and waistcoat off almost before I knew what I was doing. When I slipped it on over my bare skin it felt like his fingers.

His eyes widened appreciatively as I entered the room in my new gown, but he said nothing. He seldom spoke in these times unless it were to answer a question I had posed to him; even then, his answers tended to be brief and to the point.

“I like this,” I told him. He smiled and gave a slight bow of his head. I gestured towards the table and he took his place on it as I selected what I would use that night. Despite his words earlier that evening, I had not been sure that this would be the night. Even when I saw his gift to me (which was surely worth months, perhaps even a year, of my salary), I did not know. But when I touched it, and when I felt it brushing against me with every movement and knew that it was exactly how he would feel when I took him – then I knew. So I chose a light implement tonight, a thing little more than a toy; I would work him only lightly before my own body completed the task.

His cries seemed specially tailored to rouse my lust, while the sight of his delicate skin as it flushed prettily beneath my soft flail brought my blood to such a heat I cannot even now, with the space of long years, find words enough to tell it. He lay stretched on the table, panting between each strike, and I watched his fine fingers twitch and grasp at the marred surface. His knuckles were white with tension and I laid my free hand over one of his, stroking the back of his index finger with the tip of my own.

He looked up at me, silent, desperate. I squeezed his hand and nodded before hanging up the flail. The rack was just next to the shelf where the jar of ointment sat, unused but for once. I picked it up and set it next to his hand.

“Ready yourself, Loki,” I told him.

Hands quivering with excitement wrestled it open, and I was drunk on the sight of him dipping into it and reaching behind himself. He shifted slightly, spreading his legs wider apart and revealing what had been hidden. His hole was so tight, so tiny and pink that it seemed impossible that I might fit my prick within, but he showed no such hesitation. I forgot how to breathe as his slick finger disappeared within and began to pump easily in and out. In truth, I had asked him to do it because I had little knowledge of what was to be done, but now, witnessing this, I knew I could have been the most hardened libertine and still have found myself helpless before such a sight. It was impossible to think anyone could ever get enough of this, of such a glorious figure stretched out, wantonly, eagerly, readying itself for the satisfaction of shared desires.

The silk was rich against my stirring prick as it roused at the sight. Almost too good, it was, and I let my robe fall open. The coolness of the air did nothing to chill my ardor. He watched me through heavy lashes as he worked.

When he added a second finger a slight noise escaped his parted lips, a sound of pleasure and want that shot straight to my core and made me begin to leak my own slickness which would soon be added to that which he was so diligently easing deeper into himself.

With the third finger added, his taut ring was simply stuffed, his hand folded down on itself to make it fit. The skin which had been so pink and puckered was now stretched obscenely tight. Thick, wet sounds filled the room as he pushed them farther in before pulling back, almost out, before gliding mercilessly back in. He twisted and spread them so far apart that, had I a candle, I could have seen inside him. I pictured how it would look, slick and red like the inside of his mouth as he opened to receive me.

He looked up from my dripping prick to meet my eyes. "I'm ready. How do you want me?" he asked.

I had little enough knowledge of the choices, but I did know one thing I wanted, if it were with the realm of possibility. "I wish to watch your face," I told him.

He nodded and rose to his hands and knees before moving to his back, carefully avoiding excess pressure on his own harshly throbbing engine. It looked more swollen than ever, red and angry at the long neglect. As I watched a drop of dew blossomed on the tip and fell to his stomach. He spread his legs wide apart in welcome and tilted his hips so far upwards I could see his opening, stretched wide and swollen.

My robe fell off me unnoticed and the very magnetism of his body pulled me onto the table to hover above him. I lowered myself to my elbows and shifted slowly until I felt the head of my prick catch against his hole. I steadied it with one hand and looked at his face. His eyes were squeezed shut and his lips trembled. I tightened my fist in his hair. "Loki. Look at me," I ordered.

Heavy black lashes swept open, and even in the low torchlight I could see the pale green of his eyes glittering at me. I pushed against him, but even with all he had done it still felt small against me, and with the slickness it was more difficult than I had expected. I failed twice, my prick sliding sharply down between rather than in. The third time he canted his hips higher, letting me drive straight downwards, and almost before I knew it I found myself inside him.

I stared down at him, my face reflecting the awe I saw on his. I had tried so hard to forget, and now the truth of this came rushing back; the harsh, near-painful squeeze as the head of my prick burst through the resisting ring, the feel of those delicate muscles fluttering against me, the shock of realizing that I was inside the body of another person. Nothing else on earth could be half so intimate. I gave another push, sliding in deeper. I went no more than a scant inch each time, my arms shaking with the effort it took to hold myself back until I saw the concentration writ across his brow relax into pleasure. It was strange and glorious to give that last push and to realize that it had brought my hips tight against his own.

"Oh, Loki. Loki..." I murmured. My head felt heavy, and I let it fall against his shoulder. I could feel the pulse in his throat as it thudded beneath my lips, and I flicked my tongue against it. The shuddering gasp it tore from him was a thing of exquisite beauty, as luxurious to my ears as the silk had been to my skin. I found myself saying his name again and again as pulled back and thrust into him again. It was easier, this time; his muscles continued to relax, and I was able to fill him in just three heady presses. The next time I pulled back until I could feel the head of my prick pulling against his ring before I slid back in. I took him all in one smooth thrust, and I felt a thrill surge through my core as he cried out and arched his back. His head was thrown so far I could not see his face, but the soft mewling sounds that escaped his lips attested to his enjoyment.

The fourth time I found myself buried fully inside him, he wrapped his legs about me, using them to pull himself upwards to match each of my thrusts down, and if this had been good before it was nothing to the feel of him moving with me, pulling me in.

"Harder. Please," he whispered, and though I was the master in this room I hastened to obey. The tip of his prick was hot and slick against my stomach and I could feel it responding to the slide of my skin against it. The arch fell out of his back and he curled towards me, wrapping his arms about my shoulders and clinging desperately. His eager hips jutting up and his breath hot against my shoulder and his whispered begging told me of his closeness, and I have to admit I was grateful. He had become a creature of flame and lust, his slightest gestures and softest sounds driving me wild with how desperately I needed to spend. It felt like there was a massive knot inside me, and each clench of his muscles around my prick and every helpless shove of his hands at the black hair that clung to his face gave it another twist until I could explode from it at any second. And indeed, the moment his fingers bit into my arms and he cried out, I was spending within him. His passage squeezed down on my prick as it pulsed and shot jet after jet deep inside him, and the heat of his own spill coated my stomach.

I stayed where I was until I had caught my breath and the worst of the dizziness passed. He made a quiet sound of protest as I eased my softening prick free of him, and I brushed a kiss against his shoulder. Still not his lips. That was an intimacy which I had not yet been offered, and hesitated to seize. A trickle of my spend leaked out of him, and I watched, fascinated. He slid to the edge of the table and off, onto his feet. More seed ran down the back of his thigh as he walked carefully to the shelf and put his robe back on. A brush of his cloth-covered arm over the tabletop and it was as though our passion had never been.

 

When I returned to my room, I stood at the window for a full ten minutes with my hand on the curtain, trying to summon the courage to pull it open and see what stood below. I turned away without looking.

I had my shirt on and was stepping into my drawers when the door opened and he came in. I paused in my dressing and met his gaze, but he said nothing. He shrugged his dressing gown off - a different type entirely from those he wore to the cellar, this one was a heavy quilted gray wool, and it looked deliciously warm - so that he was dressed the same as I. He remained silent as he circled my bed and slipped beneath the blankets. I buttoned my drawers, as he had not forbidden it and the room was growing chilly, and blew out the candle.

What it was I expected, as we laid there together in the darkness, I still do not truly know. I do know that what I expected was not what happened. He was still, and the sound of his breath was quiet and peaceful. Though we did not touch, his presence in the bed brought it a warmth that was so heartrendingly soothing that even now I cannot tell it. His closeness, paired with the lingering pleasure of our earlier encounter, lulled me quickly towards sleep.

"My nurse used to chase me about the house to tire me before bed," he said.

I turned my face towards him. My eyes had adjusted to the almost-lost glow of the fire, and I could just make out the faint shine against his lips as he spoke.

"We would run about and I would shriek with laughter. We couldn't do it when my parents were at home, of course, but when they were in London, it would be our nightly ritual. She would tire me and then put me to bed for stories until I fell asleep."

I imagined him as a child, fat little legs pumping madly as he would race around the somber house, his laughter echoing through its halls. I blessed her for hiding the worst from him, for giving him what she could of a happy childhood.

"Was your hair black, when you were young?" I asked him.

"Light brown, actually. And my eyes were blue. I changed very much as I grew older," he answered.

"You were a perfect cherub," I told him.

"Was I? Yes, I suppose I was. But it availed me nothing, the night she died."

A chill filled my veins as he continued, one that had melted into agony by the time he was done. "She had been chasing me as usual, and I had run to my room and hidden myself beneath the bed. She began to drag me out, tickling my feet as she pulled. All at once she let go with a gasp. I kicked, annoyed in my childish egotism that she had stopped playing. She started making strange sounds, and I crawled out, meaning to scold her, to find her twisted and churning upon the floor. I did not realize there was a problem until her face began to turn purple and she flailed, grabbing at the air, her hands like claws. That was when I began screaming, but no one came. I sat there, pressed back against my bed and screaming as I watched her die. At some point I must have fallen silent. The candle burned itself out sometime in the night. We weren't found until morning, her there on the floor, skin all purple and her tongue spilling out all black. The housekeeper found us when I was not brought down to breakfast at the usual time. 'Why didn't you call for me, lad?' she asked when she had caught her bearings. 'She'd had fits before; if only you had thought to call my name instead of that silly scream, she might have been saved,' she said. And now you know what I am."

At that he fell back into silence.

"How old were you?" I asked him.

"Four. Four and a half, perhaps. Not yet five, I remember that much."

My heart could have burst. "You can't blame yourself for that," I told him. "A child so young can't be expected to understand such things. It was cruel of your housekeeper to have spoken so."

His hair whispered against the pillow as he shook his head _no_. "She was right. I might have saved her and I didn't."

"Which room was the nursery?" I asked.

"I have always had the same room. With no other children, there was no reason to move me out."

There seemed to me a very compelling reason for him to never set foot in that room again, but it was hardly my place to say so, even now. Instead I slid my hand towards him until our fingers were entangled. "I think you are a good man, and a good master," I told him.

He rolled to his side, facing me. His other hand found where we touched and he held on so tightly. I had felt a grip like that but once before, and never on land.

I expected him to join me the next night; it had to have been a relief for him to sleep away from the scene of his narrative, but I found myself alone. Indeed, he did not return to my bed again until after our next time below. Nor did he ever touch me beyond my hands, grasped between his own.

It was in those nights that we truly came to know one another. Two souls, lying together, whispering to one another in the dark. I found myself telling him the things I had not told the journalists: of how, when Roger died, I was so hungry that I did not even feel the pain of his death until after I had sated my appetite; of how my stomach rebelled at such fullness after going empty for so long, and I spent the night with my hands clapped over my mouth to keep the precious food from escaping; of how I feared nothing in life would taste so good again as his flesh had, eaten two weeks after my last crumb of tack. And I told him worse, of those things I cannot bear to set to paper even now. I do not know how he brought himself to touch me after the words that had come out of my mouth, or after what had gone into it before. But he did.

I told him of everything but James.


	6. Further Revelations

It was two months before I could bring myself to open the curtain and look out. I do not know why I so deeply dreaded the sight; from that first night I took Loki in the cellar, I could _feel_ James' presence outside. Seeing him standing there in the dappled moonlight, grinning up at me as I gazed down, still wrapped in one of the luxurious robes I kept finding in my room, was almost a relief. When I had that sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach that he was out there, I kept telling myself I was mad. But now I looked and saw him, and knew I was not. I was being haunted. One might ask why I chose to remain living there, but it is not so easy as that. The pay - particularly with the way he kept giving me extra money when I would run an errand in Barrow, or simply when I had pleased him, was nearly impossible to imagine giving up. Those who lived in the most desperate of circumstances will understand me here very well. There was also the simple fact that I had become quite genuinely devoted to my master. Our shared corruption brought us all the closer; the thought of leaving him had grown quite unbearable. And lastly... aye, I might have hinted at a desire to show him the new sights of London, for I believe he had grown fond enough to indulge me, but I said nothing. Because the truth of it was not the money, nor my own attachment. The truth was that I deserved it.

It became a ritual; I would fuck Loki on the broad table, or locked into his stocks, and then I would return to my room and before I had even washed, the skin of my prick crusty and foul with dried spend, I would go look at him. Sometimes he would stand beneath my window and grin at me, and I would be frozen to the spot as I watched his face rot away. Other times he would be farther from the house, playing with me from the shadows. The muck pile, where both kitchen scraps and earth closet emptyings were dumped, became a favorite of his. He would crouch obscenely atop it and thrust his arms inside, covering them with filth and reaching for me. Mocking me. As though I did not already know perfectly well what I was.

 

One evening I found myself feeling unwell. It was near the beginning of the time in which the women came to the house, and so they had come early and left well before we ate our supper. I seemed to have no appetite that night. He commented on it and I apologized.

"I think perhaps I shall retire early this evening, if that suits you," I said.

"Your evening is yours," he said. I thanked him and excused myself from the table. I had settled myself into bed, trying to ignore the growing ache in my limbs, and was surprised to hear a knock on my door.

"Come in," I bid. I sat up as he entered, carrying a cup of tea and a book. "I often have difficulty sleeping when I feel ill. I brought you a book in case you share my affliction. This is one of my favorites. I do hope you will enjoy it."

I thanked him and he withdrew, relighting the candle on my nightstand that I might read by its light.

It was rare that I read novels or fiction of any sort, but I found myself quickly drawn into the slim volume of short tales, portrayed as the papers of a Catholic priest of a century ago. Nearly all were set in Ireland. In the end I sat up later than usual, reading until I had devoured every page.

I slept late in the morning and was grateful to discover I felt very much better when I woke. I breakfasted alone in the kitchen where the bustle of Jane and Darcy might keep me company. I went to return the book to its shelf when I was finished eating, and found Mr Laufeyson sitting at his desk, writing a letter.

"Ah, Thor! You look better today. How do you feel?"

"Very much better, thank you. I came to put this back," I said, holding up his book

"Did you already finish it?" he asked.

"I did. I found it most engaging."

He smiled at me, and I was again struck at how one who happily committed such deeds as ours might yet display this beatific visage before me now. "I am glad. Might I suggest another to interest you? Of course you are welcome to browse and select as you like, if that is what you prefer."

He had always chosen well for me before, and I said as much. "I am particularly fond of history, sir, and geography," I told him.

"Are you, now? Then I know just the thing for you," he said. He took something down for me and placed it in my hands. I looked at it curiously, for it had been kept near where I had found the prayerbook. It was a slim volume of a size comfortable for my hands, and bound, not in leather, as were the other books here, but in a soft purple velvet, heavily embroidered with silver and gold and covered in tiny pearls. I knew instantly it had not been here before; it was impossible that such a thing would have missed my notice, when I had looked at that very shelf only days before.

I opened it to find that it was in English but quite old-fashioned both in words and type, forcing me to read slowly.

ON THE NATVRE OF SOMETIME-ISLANDS, ALSO KNOWNE AS EBB-ISLANDS, said the title page. It claimed to be by someone by the unlikely name of Hermes Trismegistus. There was no date.

"How old is this?" I asked, flipping forwards.

"The book itself? Perhaps two hundred years old. The text is probably early Renaissance. The author named there is almost certainly an invented figure. They did that at first to hide, and people later came to forget the truth."

"Hide from whom?"

"From those who dislike the truth," he answered.

"There are far too many of those, these days," I said sadly.

He rose to his feet. "There always have been. But you and I do not have to be among them." He brushed the hair back from my face. "Read. I left you your favorite seat."

I looked over towards the window seat. The curtains were pulled so that it was enclosed almost completely in velvet, and I had to admit it did look most tempting.

Within the span of the first five pages, I grew accustomed to both the peculiarities in spelling and the strange-seeming letters, and was reading nearly as quickly as ever I did. The book proved fascinating, as well. It was a treatise on tidal islands, as I had guessed from the title, but he had been right to keep it with the works of faith and philosophy.

 _The ebb-island is a boarderlande, a playce between this worlde and the next; and that Vayl that normaly divides them being so thin heere, that it can bee crosst with svre ease,_ it began. I found myself curious of this claim; it was clear enough to see why a tidal island might be viewed as a liminal place; with its own constantly changing nature, sometimes land and sometimes sea, it made sense enough to view it as a thing not easily defined. And it could not be denied that things once denied were being proved true; why, not ten years ago, a cable had been laid at the bottom of the ocean that carried messages between Ireland and Newfoundland in minutes. I can still remember the ladies fainting when the news was first announced. Now, reading this book, it made me ponder how easily other spans might be crossed. Whether an island like this one might be a place where those barriers between our world and the one to come might be transgressed.

It went on to discuss the relation of these islands to St Michael Archangel. _Movntayns are oft connekted to the Saynte beinge as they ayre so close to heavn, and lykewyse, these low movntaines betwixt worlds call to hym. So they are nam’d often for him and chvrches bvilt vpon them and dedicayted to hym. And also becavse he is the angel of protection who shepherdes sovles at their moment of deathe is he fovnd heere at the boarderlande. Many sitings of hym hath been mayde vpon these islands. The first nown tyme was by a Frankish boye..._

The latter part of the book was a treatise on the formation and geology of these islands; that they are thought to have once been part of the mainland, in a time when the seas were lower than they are now, just as aquatic fossils found leagues inland show that the seas once were higher. The theory was further attested to in local languages and place names that had survived from the ancient times before the sea severed the land. I learned that Saint Michael's Mount in Cornwall, which I had said past often enough when serving on ships out of Plymouth, was in Cornish still known as Karrek Loos yn Koos, 'hoar rock in woodland.'

Despite all my familiarity with that mount, and had also once seen the French one, I had never before thought about why this type of island was connected to the saint. It made sense enough, though, once it was revealed. And if it was true that he had been seen many times appearing on tidal islands, it did support the author’s earlier claim that these were places where the veil between worlds was thin. Thin enough to see through, at night, looking out my window to the figure below. And if I could see him, so could others. Had James been seen by the master? What if he had seen him and was now trying to ascertain whether or no it was a true apparition? Was he afraid I would think him mad if he spoke directly of it? And how to find out?

I found my moment over a hand of cards the following night. A new shipment of sherry had just arrived and we were in the sitting room, enjoying the roaring fire and making a fine evening of it. When our conversation reached a lull, I steeled my resolve and raised my question.

"Sir, that book you gave me..."

He looked up. "Yes?"

I asked hesitantly, unsure if I was making a mistake by putting it into words. "Were you trying to tell me something by it?"

"Like what?" He did look genuinely puzzled. If he were pretending, he did it well.

"I don't know... anything about the island, perhaps."

"No, of course not. I simply thought you would find it interesting. What did you think of it?"

"I was most intrigued by the first section of it. Do you think this island is a border between worlds, where spirits from beyond can return to the living world?"

His face had gone white as I spoke, and he avoided my eyes as he avoided my question. "Did it say that? I don't remember that part."

 

As soon as the days were warm enough for outdoor labor I took on the wreck of the garden. I spent hours upon hours devoted to it, pruning back what was wanted and tearing out all that was not. I took all the waste to the muck pile, set well away from the kitchen door. We were fortunate that the constant wind kept it from stinking, with the constant addition of food scraps and emptying the earth closets. The pile was so wet and dense that the matter at the bottom had to have become excellent fertilizer by now; I remembered my father turning our pile every spring to gather the bottom muck to spread over my mother's garden. This pile had gone years now.

The stench hit the moment I began to work, flipping load after load with the long-handled turning fork until I reached the rich black compost at the bottom. This I carried over to the garden beds and over the course of the next two days I worked it into the soil, mixing everywhere I could without cutting the roots of those plants which I desired to keep.

It rained the day after I finished. I gave it little thought beyond gladness that the water would carry the nutrients farther into the soil, and that I was finished with my work before it began. I likely would never have given it another thought, had Jane not spoken the next day.

"Did you see the stone you uncovered, at the bottom of the muck pile? The rain washed it clean."

"I did not. What was there about it, to make you take note?"

"It looks like another gravestone. I suppose I should have no reason for surprise; there are so many out there. But it struck me as odd that someone would have so little respect as to build the pile atop it."

I went out to look at it. She was right; it did look like a gravestone, but my turning fork had left it so covered in white scratch marks that they were all I could make out. Another monk, I decided. There were so many monks buried here, it would be impossible to take note of them all. Yet Jane was right. It was odd that this one should have been so resolutely buried beneath the muck. And James had been so insistent about this spot...

I refused to allow my thoughts to travel in that direction; there was more than enough mystery here, without my imagination adding to it and creating further horrors. It was a constant battle with myself; a hundred times a day I found my thoughts drawn back to that stone. Every time I went out of doors, or looked out of a western window, my eyes were pulled irresistibly towards it. I resisted my urges for four days, until the pull became a physical thing that could no longer be denied. On the fifth, I waited until the women had left for the day, collected a soft pencil and a large sheet of paper from his desk, and went outside.

The face of the stone was still washed clean, though it had not taken long for old grass seeds and dried leaves to blow across it. I brushed them away impatiently with my hand, eager to get this finished before he might see me indulging in such folly. A spider ran out from beneath one of the leaves and I jerked back; it had the mark of a death’s-head on its back, and though I told himself I did not believe in omens, I found it impossible to repress a shudder.

Once the stone was clear, I laid the paper down over it, fixing the corners with small rocks to stop the wind and my actions from making it slide about. The pencil was soft, and it took the impression of the stone easily as I rubbed it across the surface of the paper. I rubbed and rubbed, the fear growing within me at the appearance of each new letter. I managed as far as L – O – before my hands began to shake. K- I- appeared and I forgot how to breathe. I hunched over the stone, working faster, driven on by the sudden knowledge of what I would find next. And there they were. L – A- U- were all I needed to see before I fell back with a cry of horror.

The paper was in my hands as I dashed around the house, to the other side of the island. Jane and Darcy had left not long ago, perhaps the causeway would still be clear and I could follow them, run to the safety of the mainland. I ran as fast as ever I could, but it was too late. The remaining strip of sand was perhaps six inches wide. I wouldn’t make it even a quarter of the way across before the waves would overtake me. I stood, watching helplessly, as I was cut off. I stared at the far shore and remembered the promise I had made when I had first returned to England. I had kissed her soil and promised never to leave her shore. I had broken that promise in coming here, though I had not even thought about it at the time. Why, when I came I wasn’t leaving the shore at all; it was the shore that left me. And on All Hallow’s Eve, I realized.

He couldn’t know that I knew. I would have to hide my rubbing, hide my knowledge, until I could get away. I would have to go back inside the house and hide the terror that turned my blood into ice inside my veins.

The door opened silently, and I slipped inside, blessing myself for my careful work in oiling the hinge. I turned to close it behind myself, and when I turned back, he was there. Halfway down the stairs, he was, and approaching me.

“What is that you have there?” he asked.

“Oh, this? Merely diagrams of my plans for the gardens,” I said, praying he would not hear the shaking in my voice.

He approached with his hand out. “I would like to see them,” he said. “The garden has gone so long neglected.”

“It’s not finished,” I stammered.

“All the same,” he insisted.

My heart was in my chest as I placed the roll of paper into his hand. I had no idea what he might do, or what he was capable of. I couldn’t breathe as he unrolled it and glanced over it quickly.

“Oh. So you’ve found this, then.” The smile he gave me then was utterly devoid of happiness.

"I have."

"Hmm. Come with me."

He clasped my wrist with his hand to draw me after him. His skin was so cold; how had I never noticed before, how cold he always was? My feet were leaden, nigh impossible to move, yet at his demand I could not help but obey, and I followed him to, of all places, the library. He must have been in here before, for the fire was burning, though it had fallen low, as though it had been built hours ago and gone untended. Upon his command I sat, taking my usual window seat, where I had so often sat to pray. It was the closest thing I had to a church, the closest thing I had to refuge. And we were over a cemetery; this land had at least once been consecrated. All those holy men, buried beneath us, and the veil so thin upon the island... I cried out to them silently for succor, to Saint Michael for protection.

All my prayers were unanswered. I sat, trying to hide the worst of my trembling, as I watched him fetch a book and bring it to me. It was bound in dark brown leather with a double line blind tooled around the edge, near where the spine was cracking and beginning to rot. The very sight of it sent a chill down my spine. At his silent gesture, I moved to one side, making room for him to sit next to me.

"This is the history of my family," he said, opening the book upon his lap.

I watched as he flipped through in search of something. The ink was brown with age, and the writing in a hand I could not decipher. At last he settled on a page and began to skim down the lines, running his finger down the margin. I gazed on, cautious. Every instinct told me to run, to flee this place, and yet I knew flight would accomplish nothing. There was nowhere I could go that he could not follow; I ordered myself to remain calm and level-headed, and to remain still.

"Ah, here we are. I will translate it, but you must be patient. His foulness was well reflected in his script."

It was a far cry indeed from what I had expected, and I found myself frowning in confusion. His lips moved as he read silently before he began to speak aloud.

"Loki Laufeyson was the commander of the king's troops sent to _persuade_ the monks here to abandon their monastery and turn the land and wealth over to the crown. He showed no mercy or compassion as he carried out the royal order. At some monasteries, the monks managed to flee, carrying with them some of the valuables within as they escaped to the continent, but not here. The wealth that filled Henry's coffers from this island so pleased the king that Laufeyson was granted the island in reward for his service. The walls were still red with blood when he ordered the building demolished and the stones used to build his house."

Despite my terror I found myself caught up in his words, and I spoke almost against my own will. "So it is true, then, about the name of the house?"

He looked up from his book, catching my eye. "Cherry Hill? Oh, yes. And you can well imagine my feelings when I learned of it. I was fourteen, home on holiday and feeling dull. I found this book and decided to try my growing Latin; it begins four generations before him, and I confess I was about to return it to the shelf for something more engaging when I came across my name. You can imagine my feelings to learn of the nature of my namesake. My first order upon becoming master of the house was that his gravestone be buried, completely hidden from my sight. I had not expected you to uncover it."

The truth left me reeling, almost worse than had my fears; the emotions that flooded me now were nearly more than could be borne. At once I felt a flood of relief so great my hands shook anew, to learn he was no spectral creature but a living man like myself, and a wave of sorrow and pity for the lonely boy sitting here alone, always alone, and learning such things.

"I'm sorry," I said. I was, I was so painfully sorry for uncovering it, for thinking such things of him, for that unhappy boy. Such sorrow for a child to bear alone.

"It was a long time ago," he said with a slight shrug. Whether he meant the massacre or his learning of it, I did not know. He set the book aside and turned to me, brushing the wind-strewn hair from my forehead. "Such sadness in your face that you need not feel. I know what you need, Thor, just as you know my needs."

I looked over to meet his gaze. His hand was so gentle as it came to curl against my cheek, matched only by the tenderness in his eyes. "What do I need?" I asked.

"You long for sweetness," he breathed, and leaned towards me until our lips met.

I knew the soft touch of his lips very well; on my prick, mostly, but also on my fingers at times, after I had given him a thrashing that he seemed to find particularly satisfying, dusting across my hair and even a few times pressed to my cheek. Yet this was the first time I had known the feel of them against my own. They were warm and exquisitely tender and yes, so _sweet_ , and he was right, I had needed it unaware. I made a quiet choked sound as he broke away, and opened my eyes - which had fallen shut without my knowing it - to find him smiling at me.

"The fire is burning low. I will be but a moment."

He rose, and I watched his slender figure silhouetted against the warm glow as he added another shovelful of coal. I was panting softly - shamelessly, even - from the kiss, and I reached for him as he returned to me. My sudden eagerness made him laugh in pleasure and then his lips were on mine again and I forgot everything.

It could have been minutes or hours that we kissed; the curtains in the library were all pulled tightly shut, blocking out any hint of the outside world. We neither wanted nor needed it; cocooned together here in this velvet-swathed nook with the roar of the fire and delirious kisses we found everything for which we might wish. Our lips brushed together, butterfly-light, leaving me giddy. They grabbed and tugged at their partners; he sucked my lower lip between his own as I took his upper. The faintest brush of teeth sent a frisson down my spine until it settled and glowed deep within.

I moaned at the flick of his tongue across my lips. A puff of warmth blew across them as he breathed a laugh before tugging lightly at my chin with a pair of fingers. "Open. You will like this, as well."

His tongue slipped inside and found my own. The touch sang through my veins, making every inch of me come alive. My prick responded, of course, but that was not all. My heart, my lungs, my very skin woke up. I mirrored him cautiously; for all I had forced my prick deep between his lips, I remained hesitant to take the lead outside of those nights, but as I licked into the heat of his mouth, he gave a low moan and the fingers wrapped around my wrist went tense.

When we broke apart, his chin and cheeks were red from my winter beard. I would have to shave it off, in case he wanted this again. I knew already that I did. Whatever else was yet to come, I wanted this. I felt the taint of my actions all the more strongly here, in this seat that I had made into my own little church; yet I was unable to find regret within my heart.

His hands came to me, running down my front to unbutton both coat and waistcoat and ease them off of me. My thin shirt did little to protect me from the cool air, and I was grateful for the coal he had added. The room would warm soon enough. He touched me through my shirt as he kissed me; his hands took in the size of my arms, which, though still a far cry from the muscles I once had had, had regained sufficient bulk to strain against my sleeves; they felt the shape of my broad ribs and ran down to my waist, they teased over my nipples until they were firm and eager. Careful hands removed my cuffs and collar, setting them aside where they would not be crushed. I thought that he would slip his fingers about my neck or up my sleeves, then, as he so often liked to do when he was in one of his moods, but instead he leaned close enough to reach around me and tug my shirt loose from my trousers. The feel of his hands creeping forward, around my sides, and towards what he approached... he did not reach inside my waistband until my shirt was completely free and my braces unbuttoned. And then he delved downwards, taking in the feel of my skin and making an appreciative hum as he played lightly with the trail of hair that ran downwards from my navel.

I closed my eyes, anticipating his slender fingers sliding further down, reaching for my prick, which was by now straining against my trousers. They were becoming too tight as my hard work in the gardens was building up my musculature, and the constriction made me ache. Instead, though, his hands worked their way back up my body, swiftly unbuttoning my shirt and shoving at it to fall into the pile of clothing at my back. My head fell to the side as he fixed his lips upon my throat, kissing and nipping and soothing with little strokes of his tongue.

"Sir - please, I -" I gasped.

His answer to me was a low purr of appreciation and a hasty scramble at his own clothes. By the time his mouth made its way down to my chest he wore only shirt and trousers. He fastened upon one already taut nipple, taking it into his teeth and sucking while flicking at it with his tongue. The intensity of sensation was such that I found myself cradling his head with my hand before knowing I had moved. I whimpered when he drew away.

"Mmm, you like that," he murmured, breath hot against my skin, before lavishing the same attentions upon the other. The abandoned one went lonely for only the barest of seconds before it was the recipient of sweet, taunting caresses. He rolled it lightly between two fingers, pinched it, stroked it with the petal-soft palm of his hand, and then his lips were there again and those dizzying touches shifted to my other side. By the time he was opening my trousers and drawers, I was helpless to do anything but moan unceasingly.

He kissed his way back up to my mouth as he drew my prick out of its over-tight confines, making my cries double at his touch. His hands no longer felt cold; they were blissfully cool against my overheated skin, at once easing and stoking the fire that seared over me with the slightest contact. He let go only to take hold of the waistband of my remaining clothing and slide it down as far as it could do while I sat.

"Lift up for me," he whispered against my lips, and I obeyed, bracing my hands against the seat and raising my hips just far enough, enough for my things to be pulled away without having to forgo a single one of his mesmerizing kisses. He slid them down to my ankles and I kicked them away.

He fell to his knees on the floor before me and I felt a thrill surge through my blood. He had taken me into his mouth so often, but never before in surroundings I found particularly congenial. I did not grasp the truth of his intentions until he took hold of my hips and pulled me forwards, until I was kneeling as well, and then he turned me and bent me forwards until my chest and face were resting on the lush cushion where I had sat a moment before. I could feel a damp spot chilling the velvet where my prick had leaked; it was cold and slick against my right nipple, and I could not decide whether its chill or the warm softness against the left was the more arousing. With his knee he pushed my legs apart. I could feel the air - warm, now, but it still felt cool against my most hidden parts - as it brushed past my brazenly exposed hole.

"Sir..." I said, without knowing what more I meant to say.

"Sssshh," he soothed. "Just let me do this, Thor. Oh, if you could only know how dearly I long to know you as you have known me, you would be begging for me to fill you. Have I not been a good master to you?"

"You have," I admitted.

"Then accept this, without complaint."

I nodded my permission. The velvet was terribly soft beneath my cheek.

There was the sound of a jar opening, followed by the rich scent of the ointment he used on himself to ease my way. I wondered how long he had carried it about with him as he waited for this moment. It was kind of him, waiting. He could so easily have ordered it of me. The thick noise of his finger being dipped and coated had grown familiar. All these things were things I knew. And then came what I did not know, but had only seen: the feel of a cold and slick finger as it rubbed against my own opening. I tightened instinctively, and he petted my shoulder and cooed at me soothingly as he drew it in little circles, letting the slickness warm and soften.

"Relax. This will all be so much easier for you if you relax and let me do this; you would find no enjoyment if I took you unprepared, but if I am to help you, you must let me in."

I closed my eyes and concentrating on the resistant muscles. I pictured them clenching tight against him and demanded that they open. It was to no avail. At last he grew impatient and forced his way past my resistance and I gasped. The sensation was quite unlike any I had known up to that moment in life, and it was quite the strangest, reversing, as it was, the natural way of things. Yet I could not say I disliked it, and, after all, this island was a place of unnatural things. And he was quite undone by the act; his prick was hard against my hip, and I could feel it releasing its slickness onto my skin.

"Oh, Thor," he breathed into my ear. "Shall I tell you how you feel inside? You are so gloriously smooth, silk is sandpaper next to you. And the feel of you clenching and fluttering about me, oh, I cannot begin to describe such perfection to you. One day I will teach you to do this to yourself, teach you to learn exactly how much you must be opened before I can fuck you, and then you will know this heavenly beauty, but for now I must be selfish, my love, I do not think I can go a single second without being inside you, not until I have spent. I shall flood you today, I can tell already how much I have to give, and you will feel my spill deeper within you than you now know you can feel. I shall breed you so exquisitely you will beg me to never go another day without emptying myself far into this gloriousness."

As he spoke he moved his finger in a pumping motion, and it grew good so that I found myself panting and thrusting back against him. The more he did it the easier it was, until I felt a second fingertip brought into place.

"You're ready for another one now. You can feel how ready you are, can't you? Will you be good for me as I give it to you?"

"I will," I promised. It was easier this time even though it did burn slightly in the first seconds before my body submitted to the intrusion. When I had once again eased to accept him, he twisted his fingers uncomfortably. I could not suppress the faint sound of complaint that escaped my closed lips.

"Ssshh, easy. Have patience. I will train you to love this." I clenched my jaw, forcing myself into silence, and he petted my hair. "There's my good boy," he praised.

I made no more noises until he curled his fingers, stroking against one wall, the pads of his fingers sweeping, as though he were searching for - I cried out as a wave of pleasure overcame me. The sensation he had provoked was so intense I felt almost as though he had reached right through me and was caressing my prick from the very heart of it. Rivulets of slickness spilled from me, running down the shaft half-ticklishly.

"One more, and then you will be ready to be fucked. Here it is, all ready," he said, and indeed, as he spoke I could feel the tip of another finger ready itself. "Tell me how much you want it, you must persuade me to give it to you."

"Please, sir. I want it so very much. That - what you did before - I want it again, and more. Is it better with more?"

"It is," he assured me. "But these words you use, they could mean anything. You must tell me exactly what it is you want."

My face burned as I nodded. It was not enough that I accept this. He had told me, once, that I would beg for it, and that I would love it, and I knew he was right. "I need you to prepare me more, sir. I want your fingers inside me, making me open enough to receive you. I want you to fuck me. Please, please fuck me, sir," I whispered.

The third one pushed in as abruptly as the first. I bit my lip, taking it silently until he was once again stroking over that spot buried within me that had so overwhelmed me with delirious emotion, and I gave another cry of pleasure. Another two sweeps across it were my reward; I learned quickly that my enjoyment was not to be hidden. By the time he withdrew, I was moaning helplessly and scrabbling at the cushions.

All my fear had been lost beneath the sweet intensity of his attentions inside of me; when those were gone and I felt the head of his prick against my opening, it came back with a vengeance. It felt so blunt and broad compared to those fingers that had slipped right past my defense, and for all the times I had watched my own engine glide easily into him, it seemed suddenly impossible that such a thing could be done.

And then he was pushing forwards, it was so big, it was far too big, and against my will I bowed my hips forwards and away from him. He pulled me back towards him. "This is where you like to pray, is it not?" he asked. "It's not really so different. Just keep breathing."

Until his words, I had not realized I was holding my breath. I let it out and focused on keeping it long and even, a ward against the panic that threatened me as I felt my ring beginning to stretch and give way, it was so tight, _so tight_ , and despite all he had done there was pain until the head was through and I felt myself close down around his shaft.

"Good, Thor. You took that so well for me. The rest is easier," he praised.

He pushed forwards so slowly and carefully, so little at a time, and I could feel it not only in the movement against my opening where it yet fluttered and fought; each tiny gain he made felt huge within, where the head of his prick barreled its way ever deeper. I felt stretched beyond imagine, fuller than I had known I could be. After that brief flare there was no more pain, and I remained silent, focusing on my breathing, until the thick ridge brushed past the spot he had previously teased and aroused with his fingers. I cried out at the stimulation and he kissed my shoulder.

"Ah, there it is. I will remember," he promised.

Not far past that, he judged himself deep enough to not have further need of his hand on his prick, and his arms wrapped around me, his chest against my back, as he continued his inexorable way inwards. I found myself shuddering in his arms as something changed.

"You feel that, too?" he asked. "That's as far as I could reach with my fingers. It will be tighter after this, and there will be no slick but that which you draw from me to ease my way. Oh, Thor," he breathed, his voice shaking to match my body, "how few explorers ever discover such virgin lands. Squeeze me, help me slick you, make me - _oh!_ "

He cried out as I clenched around him. It was a strange feeling, and I could not hold it long, but it seemed enough to satisfy his needs, for as I relaxed he at once pushed deeper into me. This part was more difficult to take, though it did not hurt exactly, and I shook with the struggle to keep my hips fixed for him. He must have sensed my turmoil, for he began stroking my hair and murmuring soft gentle sounds with each press until he was flush against me. He rested his head on my shoulder and stayed still as I panted with strain at how filled I was.

"There. Do you feel that? That's all of it inside you now, and you did so well, so very well, my love," he whispered into my ear.

I found myself unutterably grateful for his words; even when I had faced death in its dry-hot face I had not felt half so vulnerable. With each slide further into me he had stripped away another of my defenses until I was bared to rawness. He could have destroyed me in that instant, and instead he held me and stroked my hair until he felt me ease beneath him. I thought he would draw back, then, but he did not. Instead he gave another push which went no deeper but felt somehow more _intense_ , until he relaxed back. He did this over and over, allowing me more time to grow accustomed to the feel of him within me. With each careful push my trembling calmed and it grew easier to breathe.

"Are you ready?" he asked at last.

"I am," I told him.

His hands tightened around my hips as he pulled away until just the head of his beautiful prick remained inside of me. The sense of loss I felt came as a shock, but it fell away before the rush of pleasure as he slid back in. He gave a particularly delicious thrust as he brushed over that lovely hidden part.

"Yes, that," I moaned.

He paused in his inward way to pull back just enough to hit the spot again, drawing another cry from my throat. "Oh, yes, you do like that, don't you?" he asked, sounding half-breathless himself.

He gave it one more pass before he continued on to fill me completely. Both the loss and the return were even better the next time, and the next, until I was making helpless grabs at the cushions and babbling at him, begging him for more, more, faster, harder...

I spent almost the moment he wrapped his hand about my prick. The sensations of his touch at once within and without were too much to bear, and my crisis had grown so close from the feel of him moving inside me that I sobbed my pleasure into the sweat-soaked velvet beneath me. He stroked my prick in long smooth pulls and drove deep into me as I came; the climax made me tighten down around him, making him feel even bigger and more glorious. The spasmic squeezes I gave to him brought about his own completion, and for the first time I felt him spill deep into me. I could feel as each hot jet of seed went farther in, almost impossibly far inside. The feel of it, and even more, the _thought_ of it, that precious fluid filling me so intimately, prolonged and strengthened my own spending so that my vision was fairly filled with stars.

When it was over, he eased his softening prick gently out of me, and I whined softly, protesting the loss. His hands let go of my hips to make long soothing passes over my back. "You will have more," he promised. "So very much more."


	7. Escape

He kept his promise. Every day that we did not adjourn to the cellar, where I would give him his whipping before fucking him, he would take me at least once. Twice or thrice was more usual, filling me with so much seed that I was forced to invent myself a sort of wooden stopper to avoid ruining my clothing. He liked it, as well; it held me open and ready for him over the course of the day, whenever the interest seized him. It would happen almost anywhere: most often I was bent over a table in the kitchen or dining room in those days when the women did not come to work in the house, or on the floor in the library or sitting room, where I would lie on my back and spread my legs wide for him. He once sat upon my stool in the conservatory, nude, and had me impale myself upon him and attempt to play the cello while he ground up into me. Another time, in the billiard room, he eased one end of a cue inside me after he was already buried. The pressure of it forced his prick hard against my sweet spot and I came so hard I screamed. The only rooms in which he did not fuck me were our bedrooms and the cellar.

I grew better at fucking, as I became a connoisseur of being fucked; I learned to make him keen from my prick as he never had from my flail. At times he would black out, and not wake until I had him in my arms and was carrying him up to be safely tucked into my bed. I wished he would sleep with me more often, for I could _feel_ the intensity of James' gaze burning right through the stone wall of the house, and it was easier to ignore it when I was not alone, but he declined on every night but those in which I had taken him. The women would notice his unused sheets, he said.

It was a foggy morning in early May when Darcy came to work alone. "Our mother is ill, and Jane is tending her," she explained. There was a lot of work for her to do alone, and I offered my assistance, which she welcomed. There was still much to be caught up from the last round of off-tides, when they had not come to the island for days, and she put me onto what felt like endless chopping and stirring in the kitchen while she dashed about the house, gathering the bedclothes and laundry and washing it all as quickly as she could. By the time she left, she was so tired she could scarcely move. I brought in the things that she had left, forgotten, on the line.

The next day she was even more exhausted. "It is impossible to sleep through the coughing," she explained. At least with the linens done, she was able to sit a few minutes with her head resting on the table in between meals.

By the fourth day of her mother's illness, I found myself worrying for her own health. "It cannot be good for you to be so tired," I told her. "Can you not sleep at your uncle's?"

"Then Jane would have no aid at all. She needs the help I give once I return home."

"Take tomorrow. Sleep at his house in the morning, and send Jane there for the afternoon. I am sure she could do with more rest, as well."

Darcy began to protest, looking towards the faint strains of piano that drifted down through the open window, but I interrupted her. "I can see to things here well enough for one day. I promise."

Her walk was leaden, and her shoulders looked so heavy that I felt half-tempted to carry her home. She would be better for the day's rest, I told myself as I waved goodbye that night.

The day without her passed quietly. When she returned, Jane was with her. They both wore black bands around their arms.

"I'm so sorry," I told them.

Jane's face crumpled first, Darcy's following at the sound of her sister's sob. They both wept against me until I could feel their tears wetting my chest.

"She was in poor health for many years. Her sufferings are at an end," Jane said when she drew away. She composed herself quickly, though her face remained pale and drawn.

"Is there any way in which I might aid you? I remember when my parents passed, and what a help I found the kindness of our neighbors."

"We-" Darcy began, but Jane cut her off.

"No, there is nothing. Thank you."

I turned to Darcy. "Please believe that I desire to be of any service that I may. What was it you meant to say?"

"Funerals are costly," she said. "All our pay has gone to the doctor's fees for our mother. There is no hope of keeping up with the rent on her house. We will have to sleep on the floor of our uncle's dining room."

"Which we will do," Jane said firmly. "There are many who would be grateful to have so much."

I thought about my savings, building up in a little pouch I kept in my wardrobe. "I could help you with a boarding house, perhaps, until you have managed to build up a little in savings. You would at least have beds."

Darcy looked at Jane. "Beds, Jane. Is that so much to ask?"

I could see Jane weakening. "The friendship you both have shown me has been more help than I can tell you. It would be my honor to return the kindness," I told her.

Her lips were white as she nodded. "Thank you," she said.

They were gone the following day for the burial. The tides did not allow me to attend. After that, they were back at work, diligent and industrious as ever but quiet and subdued. Jane began to close the bedroom doors when she changed the sheets and gathered the laundry, and once I found Darcy weeping into the bread dough. Sometimes I would sit in the kitchen and tell pleasant stories about my mother to make them laugh, and over time they became able to do the same. I like to think that it helped them to talk of her. They found a room in a boarding house a block from their uncle's, and over the next period of their enforced absence they sold their furniture and moved all that they had left.

The storm came in late June. He had asked me if I might get us some clams, as it had been several months since I had gathered any and he had become quite partial. I gladly agreed, and the next morning I went out to the shed to gather my shovel and pail. I was terribly on edge as I went outside; though I had never seen James in the light of day, I felt his presence more and more often. He was jealous, terribly angry at the growing affection I felt for another. That much was clear. My thoughts were so full of apprehension that when I turned the corner of the house, it took a moment for my mind to register the color of the dawn.

The morning sky was blood-red, the reddest I had ever seen it. "Red sky at morning," I said to myself.

"Oh, sailor! Take warning," James mocked in my ear.

I whirled and found only air. I did not run; I refused to give him that much. I dropped my tools and walked quickly back to the house, opening the front door just enough to slip inside. I found the master in the conservatory, playing something slow and thoughtful. Any other time I would have interrupted him with kisses, and indeed, he looked surprised not to receive them now.

"A storm is coming, sir, a bad one."

"Is this something sailors know?" he asked. The teasing in his voice was friendly, so unlike the menace that had mocked me just moments before.

"It's also in the Bible," I pointed out.

"Ah. Well then, I'd best not argue with your prediction if I fear for my soul."

"Or your safety. Let us go ashore, find somewhere inland to wait it out," I pleaded.

He laughed. "This house has weathered centuries of storms, and I've just gotten this new piece of music," he said. "I shall stay."

"Then I will remain with you. Might I turn back Jane and Darcy?" I asked.

"Yes, of course," he murmured, his attention already back on his new score.

I dreaded going back outside, but if the storm proved as fierce as I feared, I wanted them safely away from the shore. Their boarding house was in the middle of a block of buildings all the same height; that should offer them some protection from the wind, at least.

The causeway was just becoming visible when I got back outside. I hummed to myself, cheerful hymns and marching tunes that might block other sounds - other whispers, other voices - from my ears. I was very grateful that my shoes were so well protected against the water, for so little sand was exposed when I began to run across that my legs were soaked with splashing by the time I reached the women, who were just beginning to make the crossing.

"You don't like the look of that sky either, do you?" Jane said.

"Not at all. I am here to send you back to town and safety," I answered.

"And you?" Darcy asked, tugging playfully on my coatsleeve.

"He is staying, and I mean to stay with him."

She pouted very prettily, but they said nothing but a warning to keep myself safe.

"I shall do my very best," I promised.

We said our goodbyes and we each turned back from whence we had come. My going was drier, but I was still glad of a dry change of trousers and drawers when I reached the house. The music rippled throughout the house as he continued to play.

Never before had I simply _waited_ for a storm. At sea, every hand had their tasks to ready the ship, lowering the sails and battening every hatch. Even before that, when I lived in Plymouth, the boys would be sent from the school to the docks to offer aid wherever we might. The well-being of the ships that traded in our port was far too vital to let something as petty as classwork interfere. Now I sat at the window in the sitting room, watching as the menacing clouds rolled and tumbled towards us. I had already cut back the scraggly trees, that falling branches might not threaten any windows. I found myself now regretting my forethought. Reading did not distract me; I could not sit at my cello long enough to choose a piece of music to play. I attempted a hard of solitaire and a rack of billiards, but those proved no better, and I found myself too much on edge to desire distraction of a more intimate nature.

The winds had struck by the time I went to the kitchen to gather what I might for our midday meal. It proved to be bread and cheese and mustard, our most common meal when I found myself in charge of it, but there were a few cherries left from the day before to give us something sweet. I looked at his face and saw at once that he needed it.

"Are you well?" I asked as I put a plate in front of him.

He met my eyes. "It's nothing. Just the sound of the wind. It gets to my nerves."

"Mine as well."

We ate very little and without talking, but the room was anything but silent. The dull roar outside continued to intensify, shaking the panes of glass as though it were a chain-laden ghost in a romantic novel. We could hear the surf beating against the rocks of the western cliff. The little strip of beach where I had so often walked would not be there come morning.

"Will you take some sherry with me? I need something to settle myself," he asked when we finished eating.

"Of course. I am sorry, I brought out no wine for our meal."

"It is of no matter," he told me.

The rain hit when we were halfway up the stairs. It struck against every window in the house at once with a giant crash. He jumped at the sound, before turning to me and giving a little laugh that had no humor in it.

He hurried about the sitting room, rearranging the furniture so that the small table with the sherry stood before the window and our favorite chairs faced it. We sat and I poured our glasses quite to the brim. He downed his in a single swallow and poured himself another. I had meant to go more slowly, but as I surveyed the fury of the storm before us, I decided the better part of valor was to follow his lead.

The massive bolts of white and purple lightning that crackled through the sky were dreadful, as though we were fleas before the wrath of an ancient god, and yet I preferred these by far to those moments when a terrible darkness took the sky. I do not think I had ever seen it half so black; even under the thickest of cloud covers, there was always some little light, either in Barrow or a ship, twinkling merrily against the dark. The rain and wind grew heavier still, until we only knew the lightning by a brief glow illuminating the drops that beat against the glass before us.

It proved fortunate indeed that we had taken so little lunch. After we had drunk a considerable portion of the bottle of sherry, it began to do its work, and we found ourselves wanting more to eat. We were nearly to the kitchen when the windows blew out, the shards of glass invisible, mixed in, as they were, with the vicious rain that poured in. Had we lingered but a minute longer, we would have been carved into shreds.

"We must take shelter," I said. "You go to the cellar. I will collect our heavy coats and food to carry us through the worst of it."

I had suspected some argument; I was, after all, giving him orders so direct as I had not done since leaving the sea, but now the sea was coming back. He paused at my words, but turned and did as I bade. That, more than anything else, told me how affected he was by the situation in which we now found ourselves.

At least our coats were dry; the closet where they were kept had no windows. I wrapped his coat and our warm hats and gloves inside my own coat. I was already growing wet, even as far as I was from the ruined windows, for the rain came almost horizontally into the house.

The bread and cheese were added to my bundle, and in my free hand I took the necks of three bottles of wine. He never kept enough coal in the cellar to warm it for more than one night at a time. Even with our extra layers, it would grow cold to sit there all night. I was halfway down the stairs when I found him sitting just below the turn.

"It's flooded," he said without looking up. "There is no place for us to go but here."

"This will serve," I said. I set down my armload and unwrapped until I had his coat. I draped it over his shoulders and, when he did nothing, I pulled his knit hat down over his head. I put on my own coat and hat and sat next to him.

"For now," he said. "The rain will only come in above for so long before it finds these stairs."

"And then we will stand. I have survived far worse, and so will you," I answered levelly.

He sighed, leaning into me. "You are right, of course. We will survive this, and we will go on." He slipped his hand into mine and I realized with a start that this was a thing we had done only in the darkness of my bedroom. We held hands some minutes before he leaned over and kissed my lips without lust, and that was a thing which had not been done, ever.

We had only one candle with us, so once we finished eating, we pulled the corks from one of the bottles of wine and blew it out. I had started keeping a flint in my pocket, and we deemed it best to save the wax in case of greater need to come. We drank slowly, not knowing how long we might find ourselves in need of the warmth the wine might offer before the storm passed over or exhausted itself.

Our conversation touched on nothing and everything. "I have never known such fury in the sea before," he said at one point.

"And I am even a member of King Neptune's court," I joked.

I could feel him turn towards me. "A member of what?"

"What, have I never told you of that?" I asked him, laughing.

"I am quite sure you have not," he said mildly.

"It is a custom at sea. The first time a sailor crosses the equator he is blindfolded and has his hands tied behind his back. A bucket of water is dumped over his head, and then his beard is shaved off. Once he is shaved, he is unbound and congratulated, and then has permission of the King to cross as often as he likes."

"That is quite the most ridiculous thing you have ever told me," he said. I could hear an edge of laughter in his voice and felt an easing in my heart.

The water did not come down the stairs. That is the best thing that can be said for the night we spent there; at least we could sit with our sides pressed to the other, our heads leaning together. Things changed between us over the course of that night, as we sat there trapped between the floors. The tones in our voices shifted, and the feel of our hands. Sometime in that night I realized I loved him.

Somehow, despite the cold and discomfort, we fell into a sort of fugue, from which we only gradually realized that the sound of the storm had eased. I lit the candle and we went back upstairs. The carpets bulged and swelled with rain, and the floor was uneven where the boards had taken up more or less water. Glass crunched beneath our feet at every step. He went to one of the holes where a window had been, looking out towards the mainland. The sea had calmed, and the sky was a blue of such radiance it seemed to mock us.

He took my hand in his and we went outside. The front door was still intact, though the wood was so swollen it took both of us pulling with all our might to open it. The island was a wreck; plants had been torn up by their roots and tossed about; the chimney had collapsed and strewn heavy rocks all over the ground; I even saw a piece of seaweed hanging from one of the shattered windows.

"It's ruined," he said.

I followed him back in the house and up to his bedroom. I had never been in it before today. The plaster of the walls was soaked and falling to the floor in thick clumps, exposing the swollen boards of the outside walls. I stood silently inside the door as he took up a soaked leather bag and, drawing a key from his pocket, opened the dresser that stood opposite his bed.

"We must go. Pack those things you need," he said, looking up at me.

I could hear him rummaging around next door as I filled my own small bag with my few possessions. It was nearly bursting, despite how little I owned, and that, more than anything else, reminded me of all I had gained. I went back next door, where he was still working.

He glanced at my bag. "Have you any space? I would rather leave no money in the house," he said.

I knelt down to open the satchel and show him how full it was.

"Do you like that coat?" he asked, pointing.

"It is my only spare," I said.

"But do you like it? If you are not partial, we will buy you a new one."

I took it out and tossed it to the floor, and he pulled a drawer free of its case and upended it into my bag. I must have found myself in possession of four hundred pounds, at least.

His own bag held no more clothing than my own, but considerably more money, for it was much larger. I took it from him without a word, one heavy bag over each shoulder, and I followed him back downstairs and outside. The tide was low, and we saw Jane and Darcy approaching the causeway. We began to cross, meeting them in the middle.

"There is nothing left," he told them. "We are going to my hotel in London until my agent can find us a house. If you wish to come with us, you are welcome; otherwise I will of course write you both the highest recommendations for new positions."

They looked at each other. "We have little reason to stay," Jane said.

"Might we follow you in a day or two? We will need to pack our things and wish our aunt and uncle goodbye," Darcy said.

"Yes, of course," he said.

Sleeplessness, more than the weight of the bags, made my tread heavy, and halfway across the causeway he took my bag from me and slung it over his shoulder without a word.

The four of us walked together to the stationer's, where he bought a piece of paper and a new pen. He wrote down the hotel address and gave it to them. "This is where I stay when in London. If no rooms are available when we arrive, the desk will direct you to where you might find us." He gave them more than enough money for their train fare and other necessities that might occur.

Jane and Darcy turned back to call at their uncle's shop while we went on to the train station. The agent was an ill-bred lout, who stared at us open-mouthed as Loki bought our tickets.

"Both of you?" he asked, when Loki asked for first-class passage to London.

"Yes, both of us," he answered, peering down his nose at the man in a way I had seen many times before, but which he had never once shown to me. I could understand the man's curiosity, though not his impertinence; it was nearly unheard-of for a valet to travel with his gentleman, and that must surely be how I appeared to Barrow society.

We were fortunate in our timing; the wait for the next train was less than an hour, and moreover the first-class lounge was very comfortably furnished. The same drink-seller who had so sneered at me, the night I arrived here, was glad enough to take his coin when she came in to offer us tea.

"She did not wait to take our cups," I commented to him once we were left alone.

He looked at me in amazement. "They do that?" he asked.

It was odd to have such a mundane conversation after the night we had survived, but I found comfort in it. "They fear they will be stolen," I explained. "I suppose that's not such a worry with wealthy travellers."

He looked at his chipped cup with distaste. "No, I daresay it is not."

We stayed awake during the first leg of our trip; he was well versed in the geology and scenery of Cumbria, and what had been beautiful when I came was now fascinating as he pointed out and explained various features of the landscape. We were fortunate enough to have our carriage to ourselves for the long ride to London, and we took advantage of it to stretch out on the opposing seats and spent nearly the whole way there in deeply needed rest.

It was somewhat surreal to return to London in circumstances so different from those under which I had departed. The moment the train drew to a halt a porter was there, opening the door to the carriage and lifting out our bags for us. He carried them for us as we passed through the station to where the hansom cabs stood waiting. Loki walked slowly, admiring the architecture of the new station and complimenting me on the quality of my description.

I was accustomed to curses and shouting from cab drivers; the near-cringing servility with which we were met gave me a fit of laughter I could not suppress.

"What is it?" he asked me as we took our seats.

"I am more familiar with them swearing at me to clear the road than I am with a civil word from them," I said.

He settled against me with a contented sigh. "Oh, Thor, just think," he moaned happily. "At the other end of this ride there is a real bed."

I gave a hum of appreciation and rested my head on his. We rode in silence until we were drawing up before the hotel.

"Walk beside me," he said before the door was opened.

I did as he said, staying at his side as we swept through the doors that were flung wide at our approach. Our bags followed us, carried by a porter who was dismally overladen for the his size.

"Loki Laufeyson," he told the clerk. "A larger suite than my usual, if you have one. My cousin and I will be staying here for some time."

The clerk bobbed his head and flipped through the ledger before him. I would once have thought that the edges were heavily marbled for such a work-a-day book, but his own account book back at the house had been the same; when I had commented, he explained it was to prevent the theft or substitution of a page, as changes would be far too easy to see in the marbled edge. I felt dizzy, watching the waving patterns shift and move as he paged through.

"I'm sorry, sir. All our largest accommodations are currently in use. I do have your usual rooms available, if they would serve."

He glanced at me and gave a bright laugh. "Well, we shared beds often enough as children. What say you now, cousin?" he asked me.

"I have no objections if you have none," I told him.

"We will take it," he told the clerk.

His name was enough; the porter quickly swept us away from the desk. "We have just installed an lift, sir," he said.

"Have you? I will be most pleased to try it," Loki said, sounding intrigued.

The lift seemed unreal; a metal cage into which we stepped, followed by the porter, who closed it up behind us and sent us flying upwards. Loki gave him a handsome tip for the weight of the bags he had had to carry, and then we were alone.

"Your cousin?" I said, smirking at him.

"Long-lost brother seemed a trifle difficult to pull off," he answered. "We can say that my aunt eloped and was written out of the family history. It happens often enough for it to be believed."

"I will need a new surname, as well. I am glad of it; my name is too well known, and I have no desire to be remembered by my newspaper tales."

"All I care is that you are Thor," he said, pulling me close.

We undressed each other with eager hands and forgot our tiredness at the feel of the others' skin. I threw back the airy down comforter to reveal a down mattress, and we melted into it. The luxury of the bed was nearly painful after all we had endured. We found ourselves on our sides, kissing madly. I was half-drunk from the feel of such exquisite lips upon mine.

"How shall we be?" I asked him breathlessly.

"Just like this." His hand slid down between us to wrap around our pricks, and he began to stroke them as one. I sighed into his mouth and reached down to help; though his fingers were long, as well as delicate, our pricks together were far too much to fit. He shifted his grasp so that he was focused on pleasuring mine, and I matched his motion.

We fairly swooned beneath such intimate caresses, until the moment of crisis hit; it afflicted us both at once, and we spent thick layers of seed all across the other's stomach.

"Oh, dear. I must clean you," he whispered when he had recovered himself, and he crept down the bed until he could lick my skin clean. The moment he was finished, I returned the favor, and we found ourselves again stiff and leaking from the delicious lewdness of the act we had committed. I was quite turned around in the bed, and found my prick being taken into his mouth the exact moment I swallowed down the luscious engine that throbbed before me. Only after we had spent this second time were we able to fall at last into deep, healing rest.

 

I was woken the next morning by kisses dusted across my back and shoulders.

"Mmmm, that's nice," I mumbled, still half-sleeping.

"It is," he agreed. He slid closer to me as he reached around my waist to find my prick standing stiff and ready, as it tended to be in the mornings. "This is nice as well. But it feels so hot and tender," he continued, his voice rich with mock-concern. "Surely some type of soothing treatment is in order. Fortunately I have just the thing in my possession."

"Not a cure, I hope."

"Certainly not! A temporary treatment, no more, but one which is most effective."

I rolled over to face him. "Have you any of our ointment?" I asked him.

He huffed a gentle laugh. "Oh, Thor. When is it not in my pocket?"

He rose to fetch it while I lay on my back, admiring his slender physique as he rummaged through the messy pile where we had tossed our clothes the night before. He was swiftly back in bed, sinking down next to me and holding out the small jar. "Would you?" he asked.

"Of course," I said. I took it from him and he settled onto his stomach, his face turned towards me with a kind of contentment upon it. I had never prepared him before, though he had taught me well enough how to do myself. I took all the care I could, opening him slowly, soothing the taut fluttering muscles into peace.

When he was readied, he rose to his hands and knees, and at first I thought he meant for me to take him thus, but his hand on my chest pressed me down to my back. He swung his leg over me and I realized at once what he meant to do. It was not accomplished without some laughter; this was a new position for us, and the cloudlike softness of the bed, which had been so conducive to sleep, kept shifting him into poses he most certainly had not meant. But at last he was balanced above me, my prick in his hand and his eyes warm on mine as he sank down and took me within.

The down mattress meant I had to plant my feet quite firmly, and almost uncomfortably far apart, in order to thrust up into him as I desired, but the wave of bliss that washed across his face as I did so made it quite worth the slight discomfort in my legs. Indeed, I was soon driving from him little gasping sounds of such sweetness that I forgot everything else but my desire for more. We strove together, each urging the other on to greater heights, until he was quite overcome and collapsed forwards, hands bracketing my head and devouring me with kisses as hot bursts of white seed spattered me from neck to navel. Each new jet was matched with a tightening within him of such delicious beauty that it was only his lips upon my own that kept my own cries of pleasure from alarming the floor.

There was more laughing as he tried to remove himself gracefully from above me, and instead fell to the side in a most ungainly fashion. "We must order that this accursed down top be removed before we retire this evening. Don't let me forget," he told me. Despite the peevish tone in his voice, his eyes were alive with such mirth that I was more than a little tempted, after all, to 'let' him forget.

He washed and dressed while I lazed in bed, watching him. I glared at each new layer he put on, making him laugh yet again. "There will be more, I promise you, but we have many things to do today. You'd best either dress or hide under the blankets when the boy comes," he told me, giving me a smile of such affection I scarce could move until he turned away to pull on his shoes, at which time I rose to ready myself.

There was a bell cord near the door to our rooms. He pulled it and a smartly dressed boy in a red velvet cap appeared within minutes. "We require a pot of tea and two breakfasts, and please send someone to my tailor at this address asking him to call on us as soon as possible," Loki said.

The boy nodded and disappeared with our order and a handsome coin in his pocket.

We did not discuss our situation until our appetites were sated, at which time he led me from the table to the desk and sat down with a fresh sheet.

"I will write my agent, directing him to hire a crew to salvage all that can be saved from my house, and to bring it here to London to be kept under guard until a house is found. We must also decide for what we wish in our new home."

I hesitated to speak first, for fear of contradicting his own wishes, and because most of all, I desired a place where he might be happy, far from the memories that tormented him.

"Do not fear that you will speak against my own wants," he said softly. "I wish, very much, to see you happy."

It gave me a positive flood of emotion to hear my own sentiments echoed from his own lips. "That is how I feel, as well," I told him. His eyes shone as they met mine.

"Then we must both state exactly what we wish, and find the happiest resolution," he said.

He held his pen expectantly. "I would prefer to be far from the sea," I told him.

He wrote it down. "A new house. One with little history," he said.

I nodded my agreement.

"What else?" he asked.

I already knew my answer. "A home far from the sea, with you in it. All else I am content to have as you wish."

At that he rose and settled himself into my lap, leaning against my chest with a sigh of contentment. "He will need more restrictions than that, or he will be years in copying out a list," he told me. "Let us together imagine our dream home."

"I like roses," I said.

"And no more gray stone," he answered.

"It should face south-south-west," I said, getting into the spirit of the thing.

"And have water closets," he said gaily.

"The library must have an even number of shelves," I answered, laughing.

His eyes shone at me. "A lift."

"Lazy."

"Not at all. I merely have better uses for my energy."

 

The tailor came that afternoon, carrying a variety of sketch books and fabric samples. He took all our measurements with precision and politeness before opening his books to a variety of pages. "These are all the latest fashions, gentlemen. I would recommend these two suits for you, Mr Torden," he said to me, "and any of these four to you, Mr Laufeyson."

"All our clothes were lost in the storm that struck the coast," Loki explained. "we are both in need of complete wardrobes. Six full suits each, I think, should be sufficient. Thor, do you like both of these, or have you a preference?"

I carefully schooled my face as I looked over the sketches; I had never known anything like such variety of clothing, and I had never worn anything still in fashion.

"I think I have a slight preference for this one," I said, pointing at the one where the coat showed a trifle more of the waistcoat.

"Four of that and two of the other, for variety, perhaps, sir?" prompted the tailor.

"That would suit me well," I answered, hoping my relief did not show on my face.

Next I was drawn to the mirror and a great variety of fabrics were held up next to my face for me to make my choices. The entire process was dizzying, but by the time I was done, I was fairly sure that I had two brown suits, two gray, one black, and one dark blue. I would have one soberly colored waistcoat; the rest were flamboyant colors and patterns the like I had never thought I would touch, let alone own.

When the tailor was finished with me, it was Loki's turn. I found it much more enjoyable to watch than to do, and I sipped at my tea as I watched him put through the same battery of questions. Once he was gone with promises of his very fastest delivery of our first suits, I turned to Loki.

"I am very glad you got that black and gold silk," I told him. "It suited you beautifully."

His eyes widened. "We forgot dressing gowns!" he said.

A hasty note was dashed off, ordering a gown in my favored black and gold silk for him, and one of a pure, lush red, shot through with silver, for me.

An early dinner was ordered to our rooms, a lavish array of meats and new potatoes and wine-rich gravy, and a bottle of champagne, its neck dripping sweat into the ice bath. There was no pudding.

"I've never had champagne before," I told him as I watched him pour the sparkling liquid into the shallow crystal coupes.

"I think you will like it," he said. His eyes glittered every bit as much as the drink, and I felt a stirring in my trousers as I wondered what they promised.

I was disappointed in neither. The champagne was a dry one, yet it tasted of strawberries and flowers with a finish that I later learned was minerals. The bubbles were silky in my mouth and, until he suggested (with narrowly disguised amusement) I not inhale in the midst of sipping, quite tingly in my nostrils. When it was gone, Loki put the bottle to a use for which I am quite sure the good monk on the label never intended.

Though I had grown happily familiar with such fullness, the hardness and coldness of the glass was something completely new; even my little wooden thing was not half so intense. I was pleased to discover that I liked it very much. The thick ridge near the mouth felt exquisite as it slid through my ring and was buried within me. He fucked me with it until I was writhing and begging before planting it firmly against my sweet spot and taking me in his mouth. The firm pressure within and the heat and wetness without were almost too much for my mind to contain. He brought me quickly, as he had intended; I could feel it in his mouth and see it in his eyes how hungry he was for that dessert only I could give him. I resisted as long as I could, wishing to extend the near-overwhelming pleasure as long as I could before I spent. At last he conquered my defenses and I spilled into his waiting throat, dragging a pillow over my face to muffle my sobs of pleasure as every nerve in my body came alive. He kept sucking me as I spent and I could feel my prick throbbing against his lips and my ring clenching down on the smooth shoulder of the bottle. He swallowed down every drop with clear satisfaction, licking his lips as he pulled away.

I took some time to catch my breath, and lay panting as he slid the bottle out of me and settled into my arms.

"Is that entirely safe with glass?" I asked belatedly.

"Champagne bottles are designed to withstand considerable pressure. I am intimately familiar with your muscles," he said, running a fond hand down my arm. "I chose it for a reason."

He had put it on the nightstand, and I tapped it idly with my fingernail. It did make a different sound from a wine bottle, the thicker glass changing its pitch. "Will the servants not wonder at the state of it?" I asked, looking at the thick smear of ointment over the neck.

He dug into the drawer and set a pound coin next to the messy bottle. "Hotel servants who talk find themselves without work, while those who keep their mouths shut can earn very good incomes," he said as he pulled me tight against his side.

We remained in our rooms, barely getting out of bed, until our new clothes began to arrive. Indeed, food and bathing were the only reasons we left off our touching and lovemaking, and as often as we could, we mixed lovemaking into our meals and our baths as well. Indeed, the bathroom, with its softly tinted lilac walls, ever-changing hothouse flowers, and tub more than large enough for two, seemed to have been designed for lovers. Our new suits arrived four days after the tailor visited, at which time we began to see the city as neither of us had seen it before - I from my poverty, and he from long absence. It was such a joy to ride through the streets, discovering London together. And returning to our rooms, where we fell into bed early and went to sleep late every night... oh, that was a pleasure even greater. We seemed to take turns far oftener than we had before, each of us delighting in satisfying the other's lusts.

 

There was little for the women to do, as most of our needs were seen to by the hotel staff. They were given rooms in the staff quarters, and allowed use of the laundry facilities for them to clean our clothes. This was the single duty that fell upon them in the months we remained in London, and they took to a variety of pursuits as only people who have spent their lives in stifling confinement seize at freedom. Improving lectures were offered to the public at no charge by the philanthropists of the city. Jane found herself drawn passionately to the sciences, while Darcy loved to hear the tales of explorers and anthropologists. It was at these talks that they began to make new friends.

Jane was the first to approach us with her news; living here, far from the vicious tongues and vulgar minds of Barrow, she had met a good man, a cooper, who wished to marry her. Though she did not declare herself more than fond, her cheeks took on a very happy tint.

"You have been so kind to me. I don't know how I might ever repay you for your goodness. You paid for us to follow you to London, and I have done barely a lick of work for you," she told Loki.

"It is of no matter. I am happy for you," he answered.

Darcy saw us the day after the wedding and whispered to me that he had sent by far the largest gift. Her own announcement came a mere week later, and within a month both sisters were gone. I took their addresses with promises to write as soon as we had a house. I had felt awkward when we first came here and I told them of my plan to use a different name, but they understood my desire to separate from my past. "We will watch every post for a letter from you, Mister Torden," Darcy told me with a wink.

"I suspected as much, about these marriages," Loki said to me later with evident satisfaction.

"If you wanted them away, why did you bring them to London?" I asked, bewildered.

"For the simple reason that I had not yet sorted out a plan," he answered with a shrug. "But it would hardly do to pass ourselves off as cousins when our two oldest servants know perfectly well that we are not. And you saw how happy they both were. This was what they wanted in life, not to be forever cooking and cleaning for us."

"And you gave them the chance to find it," I told him.

"Only after I had destroyed all their hopes back in their home."

I caught his hand. "Don't do that. Don't make your kindnesses into nothing."

I watched him soften at my words.

 

The letter came when we had been in London nearly five months.

"Thor, have you a moment?"

"I do," I answered, taking the chair across from him.

"I have a letter from my agent," he said. "He has found us a house in Northamptonshire that meets all our requests. He asks if we might view it with him tomorrow."

"Yes, of course," I told him. I grinned. "It is exciting, is it not?"

The smile that met me was as broad as my own. "It is."

We took the train to Kettering, where we found his agent, a Mr Prudlow, a man of middling years and middling height, waiting for us with a hired carriage. The ride to the house was an hour, long enough that a carriage would have to be kept. I liked the thought; I had always been drawn to horses, but I had had little enough chance to engage with one before. These even plains would be perfect for learning to ride.

The house had no lift, and Prudlow apologized about the number of shelves in the library, but in truth it suited us perfectly. Near enough the train to visit London as we desired, but far enough that we would otherwise inhabit our own world, far out in the countryside. There was even a high-sided maze, in which we might lose ourselves beneath the kiss of the sun without fear of witnesses. We hired it that day, and moved within a month. It proved easy to find servants willing to keep strictly quiet as long as their pay was handsome enough, and though we purchased furniture for two bedrooms, one of them went unused.

 

We are happy now. We live in peace, far away from the sea. Our house is surrounded by flowers and the air is filled with their perfume instead of salt. His hair has begun to gray, as has my own, but I see naught but love when I gaze upon him. Our ghosts did not follow us from the sea.

Our days are good and our nights are better. Our worst memories are firmly in the past. And yet some nights the wind across the vast plain sounds like crying, and while they are far behind us, I know we will never truly forget the ghosts of

                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                                     CHERRY HILL.


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